and I were emotionally drained. “Goodbye Aziza
khanom
.” I hugged my aunt again and kissed her on both cheeks. I felt guilty for not taking her out for fresh air, for a walk around the block. I was an outsider, I thought. I couldn’t change their lives. I felt a sudden need to leave the stuffy room. “I will come back to see you again before I leave,” I promised my aunt. Aziza stared at me.
“Who is that woman?” She whispered loudly to her daughter.
“That’s Rouhi’s daughter.”
“Is Agha here?” Aziza asked in her shaking voice.
“He is dead. He died years ago.”
My aunt sobbed again. Aziza mourned the same deaths every day. Every time she was reminded, she mourned them anew.
On the way out, Mohtaram locked the door behind her.
“I am very sad we never met when I could have talked to her, when she could have told me about her life,” I told Mohtaram. “Why we didn’t ever come to visit her, I don’t know.” I paused. Then I asked Mohtaram. “Why didn’t Aziza
khanom
come to visit us in Shiraz? My mom was so lonely, so far away from home.”
Mohtaram looked at me and bit her lower lip. “You know we have other family in Shiraz,” she said abruptly, as if she was afraid she might change her mind if she hesitated.
“No, I didn’t know.” I turned to face her.
“One of my cousins married a Shirazi man.” Mohtaram continued without looking at me. “When Aziza went for the wedding, she and a few cousins stopped by to see your mother. A woman opened the door just a crack and told them she was not at home. They asked, ‘Who are you?’ Where would a young girl go? How far had she gone? When was she going to be back? Without identifying herself, the woman repeated ‘Rouhi is not at home.’ They persisted. ‘When can we come back then to see her?’ Again the reply was, ‘She isn’t here.’”
And the door closed.
Chapter Two
MY GRANDMOTHER’S HOUSE
On a cold day in January of 1953, two years after my parents’ wedding, my mother, age fifteen, gave birth to me at Morsalin Hospital, a missionary facility. My birth sealed her place in my father’s family, the family she had contemplated leaving every day. Learning that other imported brides had simply taken the bus back home, she had begged my father for a divorce. He refused. She didn’t have money for a bus ticket anyway; and having spent most of her time at home, she didn’t know the city well enough to find the station. And even if she could, where was home and who wanted her? With my birth, her hope of running away and escaping her life in Shiraz ended.
At the same time, she felt that maybe she finally had something of her own—a little girl who would alleviate her deep loneliness among strangers, a daughter to listen to her story, to sympathize with her saga of pain, abandonment, and abuse.
Instead, I distanced myself from her constant retelling of the same tale. What did she expect of me? That I would be the historian of her life, conspiring against my father, grandmother, aunts, and uncles? Impossible!
Giving birth in Iran was often a family affair. Women of the family came as they heard the news of a family member or a neighbor in labor. They used pillows to support the pregnant woman’s back, spread fresh ashes underneath her thighs, and rested her legs on top of bricks. They brought in chai and aromatic drinks, sweets and nuts, a freshly prepared waterpipe, and all their gossip. They sat around the room talking and laughing to distract the woman in labor from her pain. They ate, sang, and exchanged gossip while the mother-to-be screamed and cursed.
Once in a while, a guest would tell the screaming mother, “Calm down, you think you are the only woman who’s ever been in labor?”
On the back of my baby picture, my father wrote, “Farideh is actually a pretty child but she wouldn’t sit still for a picture.”
If they felt the labor had lasted a long time and the mother and child were in danger, they
khanom
.” I hugged my aunt again and kissed her on both cheeks. I felt guilty for not taking her out for fresh air, for a walk around the block. I was an outsider, I thought. I couldn’t change their lives. I felt a sudden need to leave the stuffy room. “I will come back to see you again before I leave,” I promised my aunt. Aziza stared at me.
“Who is that woman?” She whispered loudly to her daughter.
“That’s Rouhi’s daughter.”
“Is Agha here?” Aziza asked in her shaking voice.
“He is dead. He died years ago.”
My aunt sobbed again. Aziza mourned the same deaths every day. Every time she was reminded, she mourned them anew.
On the way out, Mohtaram locked the door behind her.
“I am very sad we never met when I could have talked to her, when she could have told me about her life,” I told Mohtaram. “Why we didn’t ever come to visit her, I don’t know.” I paused. Then I asked Mohtaram. “Why didn’t Aziza
khanom
come to visit us in Shiraz? My mom was so lonely, so far away from home.”
Mohtaram looked at me and bit her lower lip. “You know we have other family in Shiraz,” she said abruptly, as if she was afraid she might change her mind if she hesitated.
“No, I didn’t know.” I turned to face her.
“One of my cousins married a Shirazi man.” Mohtaram continued without looking at me. “When Aziza went for the wedding, she and a few cousins stopped by to see your mother. A woman opened the door just a crack and told them she was not at home. They asked, ‘Who are you?’ Where would a young girl go? How far had she gone? When was she going to be back? Without identifying herself, the woman repeated ‘Rouhi is not at home.’ They persisted. ‘When can we come back then to see her?’ Again the reply was, ‘She isn’t here.’”
And the door closed.
Chapter Two
MY GRANDMOTHER’S HOUSE
On a cold day in January of 1953, two years after my parents’ wedding, my mother, age fifteen, gave birth to me at Morsalin Hospital, a missionary facility. My birth sealed her place in my father’s family, the family she had contemplated leaving every day. Learning that other imported brides had simply taken the bus back home, she had begged my father for a divorce. He refused. She didn’t have money for a bus ticket anyway; and having spent most of her time at home, she didn’t know the city well enough to find the station. And even if she could, where was home and who wanted her? With my birth, her hope of running away and escaping her life in Shiraz ended.
At the same time, she felt that maybe she finally had something of her own—a little girl who would alleviate her deep loneliness among strangers, a daughter to listen to her story, to sympathize with her saga of pain, abandonment, and abuse.
Instead, I distanced myself from her constant retelling of the same tale. What did she expect of me? That I would be the historian of her life, conspiring against my father, grandmother, aunts, and uncles? Impossible!
Giving birth in Iran was often a family affair. Women of the family came as they heard the news of a family member or a neighbor in labor. They used pillows to support the pregnant woman’s back, spread fresh ashes underneath her thighs, and rested her legs on top of bricks. They brought in chai and aromatic drinks, sweets and nuts, a freshly prepared waterpipe, and all their gossip. They sat around the room talking and laughing to distract the woman in labor from her pain. They ate, sang, and exchanged gossip while the mother-to-be screamed and cursed.
Once in a while, a guest would tell the screaming mother, “Calm down, you think you are the only woman who’s ever been in labor?”
On the back of my baby picture, my father wrote, “Farideh is actually a pretty child but she wouldn’t sit still for a picture.”
If they felt the labor had lasted a long time and the mother and child were in danger, they
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