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by
Sahar Jahani
going back."
It was always on their minds. My parents had put off buying a house in the U.S. for 15 years, reciting this mantra every time anyone asked.
Were going back to our country. It was this patriotic fervor that led my mother to quite her job as a scientific abstractor for NASA, for my father to sell our apartment and ship newly purchased Maytag appliances via boat halfway across the globe, for my parents to relinquish twenty years of their hard-earned life in America and return to their native country -- The Islamic Republic of Iran.
My father had fled in the winter of 1979, one of the passengers on the last
Pan Am flight out of Tehran. He recalls this with pained triumph. He never wanted to leave. Just a few days prior to his departure, he had been protesting with hundreds of other college students in the dusty streets of Dezful, a small town in the southwestern region of Iran. He was detained by the Shahs police force and thrown into prison for about a week, a detail he rarely discloses to anyone. When I first found out about this, I took every opportunity to boast about it to my friends, only to discover that every Iranian family, at one point or another, had a family member thrown into prison, either before or after the Revolution.
What was it like to be in prison, Baba? I once asked. Did they torture you? Was it scary?
They gave us bologna sandwiches. It was fine.
This minor stint in prison made my grandparents panic, however. They bought a one-way ticket for my father and sent him to live with his cousin in America. He was seventeen years old. Youll come back, they promised.
The transition begins about an hour before the plane descends. A parade of women shuffles to the bathroom, hastily trading in their skirts and dresses for long, loose pants; their t-shirts covered in long, knee-length tunics, usually black or navy blue. In the aisles of the descending plane, as the aircraft makes its final stop, a sea of fluttering designer scarves--beautiful and extravagant Louis Vuittion and Chanel that theyve bought for the sole purpose of their few months stay--appear atop the rows.
The wheels of the luggage cart squeak against the linoleum floors of
Mehrabad International Airport. We have giant black suitcases, seven or eight of them, much more than the other passengers. We make our way through the terminal, past the baggage claim and into a large lobby area where people wait to greet their family members. I am seven years old, accompanied by my mother and two sisters, Kosar, who is 13, and Sana, who is 5. Hundreds of faces are pressed against the large glass walls that separate the new arrivals from citizens, a sea of black- and blue-cloaked women. Suddenly, my little sisters flaminog-pink dress seems too bold a fashion choice.
My father is behind the glass; its the first time I have seen him in four months. He is wearing a cream-colored suit with matching pants. He meets us with flowers and a kiss on each cheek, a standard Iranian greeting. A man I hardly recall introduces himself as our grandfather. He is wearing a weathered tweed jacket and large aviator glasses; a skin condition has rendered his face a patchy tan with splotches of white. He is accompanied by a 20-something woman with a pointed nose. She is robed, of course. This is Aunt Simin, my fathers younger sister. There are about a dozen others with them, bobbing and circling, each claiming some sort of familial association, pulling at my cheeks, planting wet kisses on my forehead. It is a blur of, How are you? Dont you remember? and This is cousin so-and-so! It is the summer of 1997, our third visit to Iran in the past four years. But this time is different. This time we are here to stay.
Taxi drivers idle at the main exit, hoping to score a long-distance fare, maybe to Karaj or Qom if they are lucky. Its hot and humid and smoggy. We need three cabs to get to our new home in Yusef Abad, a middle-class area in the northern section of the capital.
Driving through the streets of Tehran requires skills possessed only by the most experienced and daring of individuals. With approximately 25,000 people per square mile, the city is unbearably crowded. The car models are limited to Paykan or Peugeot. Political banners and murals that reflect the zealous ideals of the Revolution dominate the scenery. At almost every cross street or town-square there are giant paintings of either the revolutionary leader, the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, the then-president Mohammed Khatami, or the Velayateh Faqhi or Supreme Leader, Ali Khamenei.
Some of the posters are accompanied by motivational messages like The youth are our future, others are public service announcements. I remember one very clearly. It featured a young woman dressed in army uniform, holding her infant son in one hand and an AK-47 in the other. The quote underneath read, I love my children but I love martyrdom more. Looking back, it is hard to believe that my parents patriotic attachment to their homeland included an embrace of the countrys militant ideals. But in reality, like most Iranians, my parents secretly scoffed at these propagandist tactics -- the pictures that always seemed overly dramatized with golden, haloed faces; the quotations when translated to English always misused a verb. But neither the hazardous pollution, the desperate overpopulation, nor the ridiculous attempts at brainwashing were reasons for my parents to reconsider their decision: A developing country with vast infrastructural problems and challenges, but with strong moral standards and religious intensity would be a more beneficial environment in which to raise a family than the morally dilapidated first world. Or so they thought at first.
That fall, my two sisters and I started school. There were special international institutions for kids like us--children of ambassadors or diplomats from other countries, and those who had lived abroad--but my parents insisted that we attend a regular Farsi school in order to truly experience the Iranian lifestyle. The youngest, Sana, would attend Kindergarten and begin speaking fluently in no time. My eldest sibling, Kosar, was starting her second year of middle school. I was seven years old and had already completed first grade back in the States. But because the first year is considered to pivotal one in Iranian education, the administration at my new school insisted that I repeat it. I was incensed. My first day of first grade, again. This time, there was no agonizing over which perfect dress to wear to impress my new classmates. We were all required to dress in the same light-blue tunics, matching pants and white headscarves with our names embroidered on them. I rode the district bus with Kosar, who would be attending the neighboring middle school, which was housed in two apartment-like buildings. The entrance, like that of most educational institutions, was monitored by an old groundskeeper we called Hajji. Hajji shuffled the girls into the courtyard where we stood in rows according to class, waiting to recite the national anthem.
Upwards on the horizon rises the Eastern Sun
The light in the eyes of the Believers in Truth
The Month of Bahman is the brilliance of our faith.
Your message, O Imam, of independence, and freedom, is imprinted on our souls
O Martyrs! Your clamours echo in the ears of time:
Enduring, continuing, and eternal,
The Islamic Republic of Iran
We then ascended a series of steps to the first grade classroom. The walls were bare. No lined-up cutouts of the alphabet, no posters illustrating photosynthesis or how water evaporates into clouds, no artwork or finger painting. We sat on benches shaped like church pews with desks attached, three to four girls per table. The educational style, much like the environment, was dry and devoid of creativity. Literature was memorized from front to back, written in the form standard for homework. History lessons revolved around contemporary Iranian society and delved back little before the 1970s (at least in the first grade). Of course, as a supplement to formal education, we also had lessons on Quran, Arabic and Islamic jurisprudence. Important religious scenarios were discussed repeatedly without any sort of deeper philosophical explanation.
How does one cleanse themselves for prayer if stuck in a desert without water? One must use a rock!
During school, we were allowed to take our head-coverings off and stow them under the desk. I noticed the embroidery on the other girls scarves--elegant, scripted stitches that spelled out their namesand became instantly ashamed of the blocky letters my uncle had sewn onto mine because my mother had little domestic inclination. Some even had cute rose designs to accompany their names.
One afternoon, while sitting in the living room with some guests, my hair began to itch. I scratched a little, then some more, and more until my fingers clawed at my scalp. My mothers irate glare zeroed in on my inappropriate behavior. I tried to stop but the itching continued until she motioned me into the neighboring bedroom.
What is wrong with you? she demanded.
I pointed to my scalp, itching all the time. She grabbed a comb from the dresser and began examining my hair.
How many times do I have to tell you to wash your hair properly? she said, looking for signs of dandruff or excess shampoo. Then, the brushing stopped. My mother pinched and drew an object out of the follicles. It was small, black, with tiny legs and tentacles. Head lice. If there was anything my mother emphasized most in the world it was personal hygiene. To her, my contracting lice was an indication of her failure as a parent. She practically burned all of my uniform headscarves, purchased new ones and ordered me to place my scarf in my schoolbag during academic hours. She bought a special shampoo to get rid of the infestation, but after a week the situation escalated. She took the medicated shampoo back to the pharmacy and asked for a refund.
Oh, thats because its an Iranian brand, explained the owner. You have to buy the good stuff that comes from Europe or America.
My mother did finally eradicate the lice from my scalp but could not squelch the feelings of disappointment in Iran and everything that came along with it. At first, it was navigating the city and a culture far different from the Western, American way of life. The first time she went to buy bread from the local bakery and asked for the price, the cashier laughed.
How long have you lived in this country?
Two months, bitch! Is what my mother wished she could have said but that probably would have made matters worse. The social challenges were what irked my parents the most, having been used to the excellent customer service in the U.S. Imagine walking into a Walmart and being asked the same question!
Oh please, right this way maam, I will show you where the bakery is located.
It was a simple practice, common courtesy, but an alien concept to Iranians nonetheless.
It was at this time that my mother began to doubt her decision. In a matter of weeks, she lost several pounds and stopped eating. Maybe it was because of the loss of such Western conveniences but I think it was more the loss of friendships, of family and of the life she had built in the States. She cried a lot, almost all the time, and during these bouts of depression, my mother had few people to turn to.
One of them was Khaleh Farzaneh, our honorary aunt. She was my mothers close friend from college, a woman who had endured similar circumstances: She had returned to Iran in the early 1990s, during the First Gulf War. Though her husband was wealthy and had standing among the bourgeoisie in Tehran, Khaleh Farzaneh wanted to leave. There were little provisions during the war; basic necessities such as soap or shampoo were difficult to come by. One night, shed paid a taxi driver and made it all the way to the Turkish border before realizing she was pregnant. And so she turned back.
Why didnt you call me? Khaleh Farzaneh exclaimed with frustration to my mother. I would have told you not to come. There is nothing here for you.
And at that point, there was nothing my mother could do, either. My father had tasted the glory of a warm homecoming and was dead-set on staying.
I thought I could do something big, something bold, explains my father of his choice to remain in Iran. We had only been living there a few months, we needed to give it more time.
The following January, my mothers condition reached a dangerous nadir. Her family in California called my father and begged him to allow her to come to the States for treatment. I have no memory of these conversations or how they came about. What little I know is tainted by the bias of two narratives: my mother, a struggling, desperate soul attempting to escape a repressive society; my father, a patriot longing to fulfill an illusory ambition. Both sides claim victimhood at the time.
I was manipulated by your mothers family to let you all go, says my father, years later, with little resentment, just matter-of-fact.
For the next two months, we lived in my grandparents two-bedroom apartment in Glendale. It was during the school year and we had to keep up with academics. Every day, my aunt would work with my sisters and me on our Farsi lessons while my mother attended weekly sessions with a psychiatrist. They attempted a strange kind of couples therapy by telephone with my father in Iran. More than once, he picked up the phone only to tell the doctor he didnt believe in psychology and then hed hang up.
The psychiatrist prescribed my mother anti-depressants; she started to think more clearly. There were only two options: Stay in America and deprive us, her children, of growing up with both their parents, or to return to Iran and try to reconcile her life and relationship with my father. She chose the latter.
May 1998. Round Two of our stay in Iran. Things got better.
In our absence, my father experienced the same sort of pain and emotional anxiety that had engulfed my mother for the past year. If we had to remain in this country, he wanted to make it the most comfortable experience possible. He bought a new apartment in Zafar, an upscale area in the North of Tehran surrounded by European boutiques and outdoor cafes. He bought a car and new furniture for the house. My sisters and I enrolled in one of the most prestigious schools in the country, even attended by the presidents daughter. My mother began working at the Iran Air Quality and Control Center, and as an ecology professor at Azad University. Finally, our family had reached a quasi-sense of normalcy. We found support in extended family and sought escape in the beautiful Iranian wilderness on holidays. Perhaps my parents ambitions of serving their country and providing a moral, Islamic upbringing for their children could finally be realized.
My new school was located in one of the Shahs converted palaces. White plaster columns lined the entryway into the courtyard, which was surrounded by pine trees. Our uniforms were dark green, with a white bib tied to the front, tagged with certain colors that represented each age group. I was in second grade, B, red group.
Every day at recess, snacks would be left outside of the classroom doors. That year, my sister and I had our very own driver who would pick us up, along with four to five other girls living in the same area, and drop us off back home. The driver was
Agha Mohsen, with greasy, peppered hair and brown tobacco fingers.
The other girls in the car all came from families with fathers who owned cement factories or international businesses. They were used to getting what they wanted. Bahareh, with short, coal-black hair and milky skin, was the leader of our crew. She would convince Agha Mohsen to stop on our way home and purchase pirashkis, beef- filled pastries. She was the queen of the cab and we were her minions; she could make us do anything. One of her many entertainments consisted of playing games in the car. As soon as Agha Mohsen picked us up, we would cover the back seat with our heavy snow jackets and hide underneath. Bahareh did all the commanding.
Take off your clothes, she would order one of us, usually the youngest girl in the group. With nervous giggles and little hesitation, the layers would come off. This game was my least favorite; a mixed sense of innocent curiosity along with the anxiety of being caught ran through my head. I peeked several times. Bahareh would point to different body parts and whisper their functions.
Belly button, chest, arms, legs
We only had a few minutes before the first stop; the slowing of the wheels prompted a hasty readjustment of clothes. Though what we were doing must have been pretty obvious, Agha Mohsen only ever confronted us once. After dropping all of the other girls home, he pulled the car aside on a freeway overpass and turned to look at Sana and me.
What do you girls do back there every day?
I must have panicked, he knew, he was going to tell our parents, so I spilled the beans.
Its Bahareh, she makes us take our clothes off! I was quick to claim innocence.
Agha Mohsen didnt look angry, disappointed perhaps, but he never tried to stop us.
Our leaders antics surpassed the usual childhood play of you show me yours and Ill show you mine. Her games, even in school, all seemed explicitly sexual. During break or lunchtime, we would gather in bathroom stalls, her orders consisting of one of us using the restroom while everyone else watched. This happened almost every day, I believe, as a sort of release for what had little visibility in Iranian society. All public displays of affection are strictly prohibited, even among married couples, and monitored by a cultural police force called the Gashte Ershad. These militant men and women roam the streets of Tehran and other cities to enforce modest dress and prevent illicit behavior. As a result, there are vast underground activities that mostly attract the young-adult population. Raves, alcohol, drugs, premarital sex are all prohibited by Islamic law, but rampant in Iranian society, a nation that is becoming more paradoxical as the revolution grows older and more entrenched.
Iran is considered one of the most religious countries in the world, but in 2009 was nicknamed the nose job capital of the world. It is a state of clerics and theologians, as well as a country with the highest per capita proportion of opiate users. Iran also has a literacy rate of 99% but close to 12% of its working population is unemployed. A nation of paradoxes. Case in point: Bahareh.
Iran is also a country drowning in bureaucracy and red tape. Something as simple as getting a permit to sell your house requires what Iranians call party games, involving backhanded deals and other enticements. It took many personal blows before my father finally became aware of the façades that comprised his ideal image of Iran. He would frequently get into arguments with people over their driving habits, mannerisms and work ethic. And though he refuses to admit it, even to this day, he was becoming increasingly frustrated with life in Iran as well.
When we decided to sell our first house, my father went down to one of the government offices to request a permit. He filed the papers and was told to come back in a few days. On the due date, the office extended their filing period and asked that he come back again. This repeated many times, until one day hed had enough.
I dont understand what is taking so long, my father complained to the office.
We can resolve this with a simple gift on your part, explained the government official. A bribe.
Furious, my father demanded to speak with a superior.
As you wish.
Like almost all government organizations, the housing permit office was administered by a religious cleric. Again, he demanded a permit.
Come back at another time, I have to go to Friday prayers, said the cleric.
Hajj agha, Ive been here multiple times, taking off of work just to be sent back again.
Stop complaining. The cleric left the room, my father followed.
As the mullah made his way to the podium to give the Friday sermon, my father stood in the back. He began his speech. A few minutes passed.
You sit up there, wearing a garment of a holy figure but you are a tyrant! My father shouted from the congregation.
The police began to pummel my father before he could even finish his sentence. The cleric followed him outside.
You are a disgrace to this country and your religion, my father continued to shout to the preacher.
And you are the son of a whore! the mullah responded, slapping my father in the face.
My father released himself from the grips of the police, turned to leave and said, You will not be forgiven in this life nor the next.
My father returned home from the housing office that night defeated and emotionally bruised, he walked into his bedroom and did not emerge for forty-eight hours. This was our last year in Iran.
An opportunity, in the form of a wedding invitation, arose in the summer of 2000. My uncle was to be married in July in San Francisco. It was the perfect excuse for my mother to leave and to take us with her, this time for good. The question was, would my father be willing to come along? Had Iran broken him finally, the real Iran? Or would he remain faithful to the dream?
Iran had proved to be anything but an ideal Islamic society. After three years, it was still difficult maneuvering through basic activities in the city. My parents had not made Iran a better place and we were not in any way better Muslims, as they had predicted.
I was in a real dilemma, explains my father, years later, as we talk over the phone.
I was only in Iran for three years, barely touching the surface of what I could have possibly achieved.
It was a choice between ambitions and family, my father chose the latter.
Today, his vision of Iran has changed immensely, but he continues to hold on to the parts of that country with fervor, following the political news sites religiously and tuning in to the latest Iranian films or songs out of the country. He openly criticizes the Islamic regime even though it was once something he had fought for.
I realized that we didnt start practicing Islamic values with the start of the Islamic republic," explains my father. "And we will not stop practicing Islamic values with the fall of the Islamic republic. Religion is a universal language, religion is humanity. 
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