What The Doves Said: The Director (Book Four) Read online

The last 30-some years of my life, from the time I left Iran for the States in December 1976 until now, the years that were supposed to be the best, went by really quickly, and feel like a dream to me, not a sweet one, but the kind in which waking up, you feel lost, sad, and frightened.

  I came to the States during the Shah’s regime, a few years after Mom had suggested I come here with Nazy and Vafa, Bahman’s youngest siblings, and before the Iranian Revolution of 1979. During the first couple of years in the States, we were called “Persians”. As Persian girls, we were exotic, princess-like, and mysterious. As boys, we were handsome, charming, and total Don Juans. We were the life of the party, the gracious hosts, and the ones who raced to pay the restaurant bills for everyone else. In short we were generous, polite, hospitable, trustworthy, and quite desirable as friends, lovers, and co-workers.

  Then all of a sudden we became “I-rain-ians”: ugly, mean, suspicious, and backward. The world we knew changed as the hostage crisis turned us all into terrorists overnight. It was as if someone had hit us on the head with a huge hammer. Even close friends started treating us differently. Everyone had questions about what was happening in Iran - questions we had no answers for. I shivered every night as Ted Koppel announced “America Held Hostage” followed by the number of days the hostages were being held. “Day 274. Day 356. Day 413.” The nightmare seemed never-ending.

  In the States there was serious talk about sending all Iranians to concentration camps. The Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS), started to review all of our records and visited many of us at our homes or schools. Only a while ago we Iranians were given four-year multiple entry visas to come and go as we pleased. Then all of a sudden we “I-rain-ians” were getting deported over the smallest issues. In some parts of the country things got so bad that many Iranian students, even the ones who passed the INS review process, were forced to stop their education and leave. They went back despite the fact that Iran was at war. Some Iranians like my friend, Ali, a PhD candidate at University of Texas, left and sadly became one of the casualties of the Iran-Iraq war. When he called me to say goodbye, right before leaving the United States, he was afraid for his family’s safety here. They were being harassed routinely.

  In fear of harassment, many Iranians changed their names, some changed their religions, and some pretended to be Greek, Italian, Turkish or whatever else they could pass for. We got our share of unfriendly attitudes even in California where people were generally open-minded.

  “Hello?” I say as I pick up the phone.

  “Hello. Are you I-rain-ian?” a rough voice says.

  “Yes, I am Iranian. Who is this?” I say with pride. No matter what the circumstances and how much harassment we faced, some of us refused to change our identity.

  “I am a retired army officer. I got your name and number from the University,” he explains in a calm voice and I think to myself that he might have an Iranian friend searching for other Iranians. Times were tough so it was natural for us to want to stick together.

  “I have been waiting for this day for a long time. They are free now.” He is talking about the hostages. I know, I have been following the news. Thank god the Islamic Republic set them free last night. They are out of Iran as we speak. I couldn’t be happier.

  “I have been waiting for them, our heroes, to leave Iran,” he continues and I notice that his tone is changing.

  “Yes, I--”

  “I know where you live,” he says in an angry voice as he cuts me off. “I am coming over right now to kill you. I have a gun,” he says in an even angrier voice before hanging up.

  I pause for a second before setting the phone down. For some reason I am not afraid. I can’t see how this guy could be serious. I am only a student. I have nothing to do with the politics in my country. I was here in the States when it all started. I shrug my shoulders and go back to my homework waiting on the desk.

  It is around ten o’clock at night. My husband is at the library writing a paper. My two-year old son is sleeping in his room. We are alone in our little apartment, part of the U.C. Berkeley Student Housing.

  “You should have called the police” is what everyone says after hearing this story, to which I only shrug. Honestly, that idea didn’t even cross my mind. I was young and stupid then. I took the guy and his call lightly. Looking back, I wonder if the police would have even responded to my call. Would they have come to my rescue? I was “I-rain-ian” back then.

  I keep surprising people because I don’t seem to act according to their logics and common sense. Mom taught me to listen to my own instincts, and not to what others say.

  “If you listen to others you will never win because everyone has a different idea. You can never please them all so just listen to your own heart and do as you wish” is what Mom used to say.

  I always wanted to do just that, live as I wished, according to my dreams and plans. I wanted to finish my education, go home, be a famous architect, design a line of clothing, teach at Tehran University, start a non-profit and help kids less fortunate than me, and also tour every village of my beautiful ancient county. But life was full of surprises, as Mom had said. Nothing went according to plan for me, nor did it for Mom. It was not part of Mom’s plan to raise me alone in a small house without Dad’s help. And it was certainly not her plan to be away from me for decades. Mom tried to be with me, once traveling between the two countries was possible again. Though difficult and expensive, she came to visit me a few times. And when Mom became too fragile to travel, I started to go back to Iran to visit her – at least once a year – for over a decade. Watching the movie I now regret not visiting Mrs. F. while I was in Iran. In my defense, my trips lasted only two weeks, which I mostly spent with my Mom.

  On the TV screen, the main character is visiting his mother. I am sure the movie is shot at Bahaman’s childhood house as I recognize the architecture despite the facelifts the building has had throughout all these years. I wish they would take the camera to the porch so I can be certain. Then the movie takes a sad turn as I learn that the mother has Alzheimer's. My heart aches. I wish I had not lost touch with Bahman’s family. I hope this part of the movie is not autobiographical and Mrs. F. is not sick. The last time I saw her was at my wedding some thirty years ago. The three of them, Mrs. F., Mrs. J., and Mom were sitting together just like the old days when they posed for pictures except they all looked old now.

  “Be grateful for your youth. Time passes quickly and you will lose what you have now, especially if you don’t take good care of yourself,” Mom used to say. “I never thought I would look like this,” she would add.

  I can’t take this movie anymore. I get up and go to the kitchen, pour myself another cup of tea, sit at the kitchen table, and start sipping the hot liquid.

  I remember my mother’s old age – though she was not that old – only broken. Anyone in her place would have fallen apart. She was alone, all by herself, in a country that had changed, with her gullible personality and just about everyone taking advantage of her. I break down and cry.

  “It is my fault, I should not have left her,” I hear my Dad. It has been a long time since he has visited me.

  “Hi Dad, you want some tea?” I say as I wipe my eyes. “It has been a while. Mom visits me all the time. Why haven’t you visited?” is what I want to say but I am afraid he might not want to answer and would disappear instead.

  “I am the one who ruined our lives,” he says as he shifts his weight while leaning against the walking stick he had started using a couple of years after he left us. His head, bonier than ever, seems too heavy for his neck. I wish he would sit down.

  I want to agree with Dad but I don't have the heart. He looks even more fragile than the last time I saw him. That was many years ago, when I had visited Iran and traveled to the north, where he had moved because of his asthma. It is humid in the north, by the Caspian Sea, and his doctor had suggested the weather there would agree with his asthma better. She was there too, his
second wife. They lived in an apartment a few floors up. Knowing my dad and how he liked to be outdoors, I thought with his asthma and bad back the stairs would be limiting for him. Years later, after Dad had passed away, I finally realized that the wife had planned it that way so Dad would be cut off from the outside and become completely dependent on her. But at least they had a beautiful view from their windows. When I was visiting I could hear the Caspian Sea in the distance just like when I was a kid and vacationed at the north.

  The smell of the sea fills the car and I cry "the sea" as I jump up and down in my seat.

  "You want me to stop at the beach first?" The driver asks as he looks at me in the rearview mirror and smiles.

  “Yes!” I want to scream.

  I am in love with the sea. I am beside myself whenever I am here. The smell reminds me of something familiar, I never know exactly what. It is as if an ancient memory fills me and lifts my soul with every breath I take when I am around the sea, the Caspian Sea in particular.

  "It takes four grownups to keep this child in shallow water," Mom says, worrying about me drowning.

  What Mom doesn't know, and somehow I have never told her, is that I feel completely safe, there in the depths of the sea.

  "Come, come closer, come,"