After Tehran (19 page)

The first time we arrived at Zahedan Airport, I was separated from Andre at security check. I made it to the public concourse before him and waited in a corner, trying to spot the professor from the university who was to pick us up there. As I glanced around, I noticed a member of the Revolutionary Guard staring at me. I looked the other way. The man walked toward me.

“Where are you coming from?” he asked me, his tone intimidating.

My heart began to race.

“Tehran,” I said.

“Are you travelling alone?”

“No. I’m with my husband. He should be here any moment.”

“Your
husband
?” he said mockingly.

Suddenly, Andre and the professor from the university appeared next to me.

“Is there a problem?” the professor inquired of the guard angrily. “Why are you harassing this young woman?”

“Are you her husband?” the guard wanted to know.

“
I
am her husband,” Andre responded.

“We teach at the university,” the professor said. “Can we help you?”

“No. Move along.”

As we walked away, Andre wanted to know why the Guard member had picked on me. I said I didn’t know. I had been minding my own business.

We drove along city streets, and I noticed that the Revolutionary Guard had almost no presence here. Most of the locals wore the
traditional clothing of the region—long shirts and baggy pants for men; colourful long dresses and not-so-covering head scarves for women. I soon learned that drug dealers had a great deal of influence in the city. They were armed, and they disliked the Revolutionary Guard and anyone with strong ties to the government. The professor assured me that members of the Revolutionary Guard would not bother me on city streets. Indeed, the drug dealers had attacked many government convoys on the mountainous part of the road leading to the city.

Andre and I decided to explore the market shortly after our arrival in Zahedan. We had heard that we could buy fine china for a fraction of the regular price; we also needed food to fill our fridge. As we walked down one of the dusty streets of the bazaar, with its small shops and street vendors, a man wearing the traditional local clothing approached us and greeted us in English. We were shocked. Andre is blue-eyed and blond and looks very Western, so the man had probably assumed that we were foreigners. In Persian, Andre explained that we were Iranian and he was in Zahedan to teach at the university.

“We like professors,” the man said. “So good of you to come here to teach our children. Zahedan is a nice place. You’re safe here.”

We thanked him and walked away. I was beginning to like Zahedan. It seemed that the only places in the city where the Revolutionary Guard had influence were the airport and government buildings.

Andre loved teaching and was soon working long hours. He was either in class, preparing for it, or correcting papers. I, on the other hand, didn’t have much to do. I spent my days cooking, cleaning, or staring out the window at the pale sky. I didn’t drive. The university was outside the city, twenty minutes by car, so I couldn’t get out much. It was usually extremely hot in Zahedan—between
35 and 45°C—so I couldn’t even go for long walks. Most of the other professors’ wives were a few years older than I was, and most of them had children and were busy with their daily lives. Every weekend, we would get together with a few university families for dinner, but during the week, I was mostly on my own. I was extraordinarily careful not to ever mention that I had been in prison, since that could have cost Andre his job.

During the height of the Iran–Iraq War, Tehran came under regular Scud-missile attacks, so I appreciated the peace and quiet of Zahedan then more than ever before. Because of the distance between Zahedan and the Iran–Iraq border, the war had not touched the city, and its remoteness gave it a sleepy, easy calm.

Yet the truth was that even though at the beginning I was glad to be so far away from Tehran and my memories, within a few months I began to feel terribly bored. I didn’t even have any books to read, because after my ordeal I was afraid to buy books considered illegal, which included Western novels. I envied women who worked outside the home, but with my political record, I didn’t have any hope of finding a job: most good positions available to women in Zahedan were government related.

Every day was the same as the one before it. I was grateful for my safety, but I craved human interaction and some culture. Andre seemed to live in a universe that was busy, fulfilling, and exciting. However, my world had frozen in time. I found it ironic that I had been lonely most of my life: locked out on the balcony during my childhood, put away in solitary confinement during my teenage years, and now safely concealed in Zahedan.

Andre’s life literally depended on his job, because if the university was not happy with his performance, he could be sent to the front. On top of that, he is a perfectionist, the kind of person who always gives his very best to his job. The silence that surrounded my past lived between us, and we talked only about daily matters. Andre
had been raised by his aunt; she’d been a meticulous housekeeper and a fantastic cook, and he expected me to be likewise. He didn’t cook and didn’t like helping in the kitchen. I didn’t mind it—there was nothing else to do. What annoyed me was that he expected me to always do as I was told. I knew that he was better and smarter than I was, but I still wanted him to respect my ways, even if they were imperfect. As a good wife, I believed I had to be supportive and understanding and to remember that life was a give-and-take. I loved Andre and I had chosen to marry him, and I would do all I could to make our marriage work. Even though the shadow of my past hung over my life and small things like a smell or a word sometimes evoked painful memories, I managed to push them back, keep them at bay, and look ahead. But I felt isolated. A distance lay between us that even love could not bridge. I knew this, but I chose to ignore it, hoping that time would fix everything.

In the spring of 1988, I discovered that I was expecting. My pregnancy brought a new light into my life. Sometime during my eighth month, I went to the local hospital for an ultrasound. Zahedan was a small city and my gynecologist happened to be at the hospital that day. The ultrasound showed that the baby’s head was too big for the baby’s age. The gynecologist believed that the baby was hydrocephalic, a serious condition in which water accumulates in the brain. The radiologist who performed the ultrasound, however, believed that the large size of the head wasn’t enough to assume hydrocephalus, that there should have been other signs, which were absent. I lay on the bed, listening to the two doctors arguing about my baby.

“We should just drill a hole in its head and pull the baby out with forceps. It’s not worth a Caesarean section,” the gynecologist said.

Andre and I had had enough. I immediately got on a plane and flew to Tehran. There I saw another doctor, who told me that the
baby—whom we later named Michael—was fine; he just had a big head. Five weeks later, Michael was born healthy. The new doctor turned out to be right!

SOON AFTER MY RELEASE
from Evin, I realized that I was now in a larger prison the size of Iran: no one wanted to know what had happened to me, I couldn’t go back to school, and I couldn’t get a job. I was suffocating, and everyone seemed to think everything was well. All this made me yearn to leave the country. Andre and I had talked about immigrating, but we couldn’t until I got a passport and he finished his three years of teaching in Zahedan. After Michael’s birth, our leaving Iran became more urgent. Neither Andre nor I wanted our son to go to school in the Islamic Republic and have to yell “Death to America,” “Death to Israel,” and
“Allaho Akbar
” before going to class.

Finally, in October 1990, Andre, Michael, and I left Iran for Madrid, Spain, and a few days later, we went to Budapest, Hungary, where Andre had many relatives. This was only a year after the fall of Communism there.

We were greatly on edge in Madrid, with no idea what would happen to us. We had little money and we didn’t speak Spanish. Andre and I ate only one meal a day to reduce our expenses, but we made sure that Michael was happy and comfortable. Even though the unfamiliar surroundings intimidated us, the beauty of the city, with its wide streets, magnificent fountains, glorious historical buildings, beautiful parks, and splendid shops, captivated us. Madrid was full of colour and energy. When we arrived at the airport in Budapest, though, we were surprised to find it even gloomier than the airport in Tehran. We were overjoyed at reuniting with Andre’s sister, aunts, uncles, and cousins, but we both immediately noticed that the city was predominantly grey and that a sadness hung over it. Most
passersby trudged along, clad in drab clothes. Most buildings were in poor repair and had not been painted in a long time. The stultifying effects of Communism were still evident. That it was November and the sun rarely shone didn’t help. After only a week in Budapest, I began feeling depressed.

For our first few days, we stayed with Andre’s sister. She was single and lived in a small fourth-floor apartment. The Communists had divided large houses into tiny apartments, and even though Andre’s sister had a good job, her home consisted of one average-size room, with a tiny kitchen and a bathroom. Andre, Michael, and I eventually moved to another apartment across the city. It was older but a little bigger. Andre, who spoke Hungarian, found a job as an engineer in a large Hungarian company, but his salary was not even enough to cover our rent. After the fall of Communism, prices had soared. During the Communist regime the government had allowed people to live in state-owned apartments for a low rent. Once the political system changed, the new government announced that the ownership of properties the previous regime had rented out would be transferred to the tenants. So Andre’s sister now owned her apartment, but because we were new in the country, we had to pay rent.

My sister-in-law and all Andre’s relatives were extremely kind and generous to us. They invited us to their homes for traditional Hungarian meals and assisted us in any way they could. His sister even helped us with our expenses. I spent my days cooking and cleaning and doing things with Michael. I took him to the park every day and I read to him from English books. I was shocked that sometimes on the street, the tram, the subway, or at the park, people swore at me, calling me a Gypsy. They had probably never seen an Iranian, and because I had long dark hair and large dark eyes, they assumed I was Roma. This made me feel very sympathetic toward that minority.

At the beginning of our stay in Budapest, I tried to communicate with people at the grocery store and other public places in English or Russian, but I soon learned that almost no one spoke English and everyone pretended not to understand Russian. Russian had been taught in schools under Communism, but because Hungarians hated the Soviets, they hated their language, as well. I felt completely isolated in Hungary, but we had applied to go to Canada as independent immigrants, and I had faith that Canada would accept us.

One late-spring day I noticed a Roma woman at a street corner in Budapest. She was sitting behind a dirty cardboard box with something written on it in Hungarian. She had large dark eyes like mine, and her curly dark-brown hair reached her waist; her clothes were worn. I had been hunting for an address and, unable to find it, I needed to ask someone for directions. But I was wary of approaching passersby: I didn’t want them to think that I was begging—I had no desire to be sworn at. The woman looked like a nice person, so I went up to her and, in broken Hungarian, tried to ask her which way to go. I had put some effort into learning Hungarian, but my progress had been painfully slow. The woman eyed me with an amused expression and shrugged. I repeated what I had said but in Russian this time, and she laughed.

“Where are you from?” she asked in Russian. “You have a strange accent.”

“Iran,” I said.

She was shocked. “What are you doing here? Begging?”

“No. It’s a long story. I need to find an address.”

“I’ll help you if you tell me what you’re doing here.”

It sounded fair.

“I’ve escaped Iran. My husband’s parents were Hungarian, so we’re staying with his relatives here. We want to go to Canada, where I have a brother. I was a political prisoner in Iran.”

“Political prisoner? That’s not good! And I thought
I
had bad fortune … They hurt you?”

I nodded. That a complete stranger, a woman some people considered a second-class citizen, had asked me a question that my family never had astounded me. But then I realized that because we did not know each other, she had allowed herself to be curious, not worrying about hurting my feelings or getting hurt herself. She wanted to know if I had been tortured, and I told her a little about Evin.

“Do people speak Russian in Iran?” she asked.

“No. Both my grandmothers were Russian. They escaped to Iran after the 1917 revolution.”

“You look like us and you don’t have a real home, so you’re a Gypsy,” she announced.

“I guess I am.”

“The address you want is not far. Go straight and take the third right.”

“Thanks.”

“Would you like me to read your palm?”

“I don’t have much money.”

“For you, my strange, tortured sister, I’ll do it free.”

I extended my hand; she took it and studied my palm for a minute.

“You’ll make it to Canada … Aha! I see your time in prison right here in your lifeline. As if your life ended and then started again.”

“It was exactly like that.”

“Your son is ill.” She looked at Michael. My child
had
been very ill, but he didn’t show it.

“He is. He has a serious illness,” I said.

“Yes, but he will live and become a strong man.”

I wanted to believe her.

“I wouldn’t lie to you. It’s written. And you will do important things and travel to many countries.”

“Just Canada will do.”

“You’ll get there.”

I tried to give her some money, but she wouldn’t accept any. I thanked her again and walked away. How on earth had she known about Michael’s illness? I glanced back. She waved at me. I felt much better than I had in a long, long time. Maybe this was God’s way of telling me that things would turn out all right.