The Alley of Love and Yellow Jasmines (12 page)

I was visiting my colleagues and friends at the theater workshop where I started acting when I heard the Shah’s last speech on Iranian national radio. He urged Iranians to open their eyes and not to fall into the trap of fundamentalism. He promised everyone that he would do his best if his people stood by him. We all looked at one another, wanting to believe that everything would get back to normal under his power. But a thick cloud of doubt hung over our heads.

In a few weeks, the Shah left with tear gas in the air. This was January 1979. I will never forget his last gesture. He bent down and collected a bit of Iran’s soil before he flew off in his plane. He looked much older than his age. His eyes were filled with tears and disappointment. He was suffering from cancer, though none of us knew about it. It was truly heart-wrenching.

The rioters, mostly young men, were holding up enlarged copies of the morning headlines, stating in big black letters,
THE SHAH HAS FLED IRAN
. Students chanted in unison, “Allah Akbar, Khomeini Rahbar” (“God is great, Khomeini is our leader”). They were soon joined by the leftists, socialists, Communists, Islamic Marxists—and even the rightists. In my heart I still loved the Shah, but witnessing the hatred and dissatisfaction of hundreds of thousands of Iranians marching on the streets, demanding the Shah’s abdication, was telling me that perhaps Iran was ready for a change, under someone who came from the people, and worked for the people. Could it truly be the end of the Shah’s dynasty? Has he really left for good? Will he ever return? People kept asking one another the same questions. The speculations were endless. Some believed that he would soon regain power with the help of the CIA, as he had in August 1953, claiming, “History repeats itself.”

The overall picture was as macabre as reading
The Trial
by Franz Kafka. Only this time, a kingdom was on trial by its own youth, demanding the king abdicate and for Khomeini to return. They naively believed that Khomeini was going to be their Gandhi—which time and history would prove wrong.

The Shah had left the country to Prime Minister Shapour Bakhtiar, the last prime minister of Iran and one of the most distinguished. Still, the rumor was that the Ayatollah was returning to Iran via Air France.

Prime Minister Bakhtiar called for a peaceful pro-Shah demonstration at Baharestan Square, the same square where I had gone to see the minister with my puff pastries. My father asked me to stay away from the demonstrations, knowing I had been out at every chance. I had begun doing so ever since the Shah had left because I was curious to see what a revolution was all about. And here I was, now a part of it.

My father knew me well and was genuinely afraid for me. He kept saying that he was more afraid of what I might do than of what my three brothers might do. Aydin, too, wanted me to stay away from the streets and the rioters. But history was unfolding before my eyes. Witnessing people en masse, marching on the streets, putting their lives in danger, to make a change, was electrifying. I felt I was in the midst of collective minds and a kind of oneness and a civil disobedience that bore all the ingredients of a Shakespearean tragedy.

I heard them out but ultimately carried on with my actions, because I found it so meaningful and exciting. I truly believed in the monarchy and thought it was the best form of government, at least for Iran, so I screamed my opinions out loud with the rest.

ONE DAY I
left home with Mahdi a little after Aydin had gone to work and headed toward the crowds. Aydin worked tirelessly until the last days of the Shah’s reign, and when the queen’s office was shut down, he decided to work on his own as an artist. Saeed, our driver, ran after Mahdi and me and asked why we had not taken the car. We told him that we were going to see a friend in the neighborhood and did not need it. We then walked to Tajrish Square and tried to catch a cab. No driver wanted to go anywhere near the demonstration. We paid one cabdriver a lot of money to take us as close as he could. Still, it took us half an hour on foot to get to the demonstration, through the alleys of my childhood neighborhood.

Thousands of pro-Shah Iranians, men and women dressed up for the occasion, walked miles on Shah Avenue for Baharestan Square. There were others, mostly bearded men and women in
hijabs
, all dressed in black shouting, “Allah Akbar, Khomeini Rahbar,” as they angrily shook their fists at us.

A line of masked policemen, armed to the teeth, holding on to their see-through shields along the edge of the pavements, protected the peaceful demonstrators—like us—from the fanatics, who were growing more and more hostile.

We joined the peaceful demonstrators but with difficulty, having to cut through both the angry demonstrators and the chain of armed policemen.

The crowd took us to the square and Prime Minister Bakhtiar appeared. People cheered, many booed, but all soon quieted down, waiting for him to speak.

He started with a poem by Hafiz: “God be with the one—who has traveled with caravans of our love. . . .”

He paused before the second verse, and somebody screamed, “He means God be with the bloody Shah, you idiots.” The crowds started shoving and pushing. Some shouted “Death to the Shah and the filthy monarchists” while others were screaming and crying. Then somebody threw the first brick, which was soon followed by hundreds of them. The scene was like a raging coliseum, only this time it was brother against brother.

A half-broken brick hit me on the forehead. Mahdi rushed me to the nearest road-going emergency ambulance, where I was lucky to receive only eleven stitches.

I got home late that evening and Aydin was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. “Shohreh,” he said. “You must stay home away from the trouble, or leave Iran.”

I was shocked at his suggestion. I had never thought about leaving Iran for political reasons. How long would I have to leave for? I wondered.

BAKHTIAR NEEDED TO
make a vital decision: whether or not to have the Ayatollah arrested upon his arrival for his anti-Shah propaganda.

He ordered all the airports shut down for three days, or possibly more, perhaps to buy time to find a popular solution for this divided nation.

Poor Bakhtiar was never forgiven by Khomeini for shutting down the airports. He eventually fled the country but was stabbed to death in 1991 in his own house in Paris, under the nose of the French police. Bakhtiar’s assassins were said to be of Iranian origin and reportedly escaped back to Iran via Switzerland.

19

The Boxes of My Life

I
sat in our backyard for hours, weighing my options. I considered the consequences if I chose to leave. I would be far from my husband, family, and friends at least for a while and waiting to see what the future had in store for me. I needed to leave Iran, even though the idea broke my heart. I was too much of a danger to my family and my husband. I had no intention of putting members of my family in danger by attending the demonstrations. I had no idea if my film work or my political beliefs were going to haunt me in the new regime.

The chaos and the slogans that littered the streets disturbed me greatly. For endless empty days I was upset not only at the distrust among the people but also about the question of what I could even do in my country if I remained. After all, I was no longer acting, just watching Aydin paint and listening to my mother-in-law’s fearful view of the outcome of the revolution.

Parting with three-year-old Pasha was also a devastating thought. I could not take him with me. I did not even know where I was going. My instinct was telling me to leave. My destination was as unknown as my future.

Aydin came home one night and saw me sitting in the dark with Pasha, listening to Albinoni’s
Adagio
, the sad classical music permeating our home. He got very upset and told me then and there, “You are free as a bird to do what is right for you. I will help you leave. I will do anything for you to be happy again and live a life that you deserve. I know that I cannot keep you here, and I know that I cannot live abroad. But I am not telling you what to do, or what not to do. You are free to make the decision, and I will support you as long as I am alive. I will be behind you like a mountain.”

I prepared to leave Iran with a small suitcase containing a few pieces of clothing, including two of my favorite theater costumes, five photographs of my family, and the iconic portrait that Aydin had painted of me on my twenty-second birthday. Last but not least, I packed the two calligraphies we’d purchased in Egypt.

I left after two months of intense deliberations. The idea of leaving all the people I loved was killing me, and starting a new life seemed difficult and daunting. But I had no other choice. What could a young, modern, outspoken actress do under the Islamic revolutionary regime that was about to take over?

We had a small Persian dresser from around 1800 with many drawers. It was known as “Hezar Bisheh,” or “1,000 nests.” In one of the drawers were two small dictionaries. One was English-Farsi, the other Farsi-English. I opened one and started looking at the English words. I tried to pronounce big words, such as
psy-chi-a-trist
or
squan-de-ring
. Pasha looked at me in the way a wise man looks at his idiot pupil.

I knew that my little knowledge of the English language would not take me far, and I wondered if I could easily learn the rest of the language shortly—naively believing it possible.

PROFESSOR ALI WAS
right. The clerics eventually wiped out most of the underground leftists who did not or could not flee the country. The Shah moved to Cairo with his family to stay with his friend Anwar Sadat.

I called my childhood friend Mahdi and told him that I had to leave the country and by car. It was the only way left to sneak out of the turmoil. He laughed at me: “You’re crazy, but I’m crazier than you. I’ll help you get out, but I will return to Iran after you are settled. I cannot live anywhere but here.”

Next I called my mother. Our conversation was brief.

“Mom, I am leaving,” I said.

“When?” she asked

“Tonight,” I replied.

“You know how much I love you, Shohreh. Do what is right for you. And remember, your father and I are proud of you, wherever you are.”

“I love you, too, Mom.”

“God be with you,” she said.

“May I talk to Dad?” I asked.

“It would be better if you didn’t,” my mother told me. “I’ll tell him and your other two brothers later.”

She knew me. She knew that if I had stayed I would have put everybody’s life in danger, including my own. I was too outspoken, daring, and idealistic for the Islamic regime that was determined to take Iran back into medieval times.

Next I called my brother Shahriar, who was now married and living in his own house. He came right over. I told him that I had to see my best friend, Shahla, but that I was afraid to drive alone. Shahriar and I arrived at Shahla’s house a little after eight o’clock in the evening. We worried whether we would be able to make it home by the nine-o’-clock curfew.

Shahla was stunned to see me. She could not believe I was leaving Iran, but she was happy for me. We hugged and silently wept in each other’s arms, and I left without saying good-bye. My last words were “See you soon, Shahla.”

Thankfully we made it home on time. Mahdi had arrived and Aydin`s mother was shocked to see us leaving. Aydin had decided to give her the news of our departure at the last minute and was now trying to convince his mother that he would be back in no time. The poor lady didn’t understand the meaning of it all. “But why are you doing this?” she kept asking.

“Believe me, Mom, it’s best for everybody,” he said.

She turned to me and asked, “Do you not love Aydin?”

I was stunned. “Yes, I do love him. That is why I am doing this. I don’t want him to get into trouble over me.”

I SAT ON
the stairs of the front yard with Pasha at my side, looking at the fountain and its translucent water in the cold. The moon and stars were shining against the dark night sky. All the flower bushes were buried under layers of thick ice. Not a sound was heard from the alley, and not a soul passed by. I couldn’t even hear the wailing echo of winter crows. I sat there in total despair, preserving all the good memories of my dream life in Iran.

We ate a small late dinner while discussing which road we would travel.

We prepared to leave at four-thirty in the morning. Pasha was anxiously waiting at the door, in between my mother-in law and Hassan. Pasha was a true companion, full of love and affection, and I could tell he fully understood what was going on. His ears were erect, and I knew he sensed this was our good-bye.

I sat face-to-face with Pasha in his favorite Sphinx position, looked him in the eye, and talked to him. He listened with the utmost patience. Once I told him that I had to go, his eyebrows rolled down and his eyes became wet with sorrow. I kissed his forehead and hugged him good-bye.