Prisoner of Tehran: A Memoir (No Series) (19 page)

God didn’t say a word
.

As he had promised, Ali brought me breakfast in the morning:
barbari
bread with homemade sour-cherry jam. The tea was in a plastic cup and deliciously fragrant and didn’t smell of camphor. I spent the morning thinking about what Andre and my parents were probably doing. I was almost sure my mother was sitting in her favorite chair, knitting or sipping a cup of tea. My father was at work, and Andre…well, I didn’t know what
he
was doing. It was almost the end of spring and the schools were out, so he wasn’t teaching. Was I somewhere at the back of their minds, a memory pushed aside? Or was I a vivid presence, forgiven and prayed for?

Can anyone hear me?

That night, Ali picked me up at about six o’clock and told me he was taking me to meet his parents. Their house wasn’t too far from Evin. Once we arrived, he parked the car on the quiet street. Old clay brick walls stood on both sides of the road, and behind them, ancient maple, willow, and poplar trees reached toward the sky but seemed like weeds against the enormity of the Alborz Mountains in the background. My throat was terribly dry and my hands cold and clammy. Although Ali had reassured me that his parents were very kind, I didn’t have any idea what to expect. I followed Ali to a green metal door, and he rang the doorbell. A small woman opened the door. She had a white chador on, and I guessed she was his mother, Fatemeh Khanoom. I had expected her to be bigger.

“Salam, Madar joon,”
Ali said and kissed her forehead. “Madar, this is Marina.”

“
Salam,
dear. It’s nice to meet you.” She smiled. Her tiny brown eyes searched my face with curiosity. She had a kind face.

We stepped through the door and into the front yard. A narrow walkway covered with gray pebbles curved to the right, disappearing between ancient walnut and maple trees. The large house was soon in sight, its walls engulfed by vines. Clay pots overflowing with geraniums and marigolds flanked the wide steps leading to the large porch.

In the house, beautiful, expensive Persian rugs covered the floors. Ali’s sister, Akram, was there with her husband, Massood. She had a round face, large brown eyes, and rosy cheeks. I wasn’t sure whether I should embrace her, shake hands with her, or neither; some fanatic Muslims considered Christians to be unclean, so I decided not to touch her in case she would get offended. Ali embraced his father and kissed him on both cheeks. He was a couple of inches taller than Ali and rather slim and had a trimmed gray beard. The family greeted me politely, but I could see their discomfort. A Christian girl and a political prisoner wasn’t their idea of a suitable wife for Ali, and I didn’t blame them for trying to figure out what he had seen in this pale and strange girl.

We moved into the living room, which was spacious and attractively decorated. There were fruits and sweets on silver and crystal platters on every coffee table. I sat on a couch next to Akram. Ali’s mother offered us some Earl Grey tea. I noticed she was watching me most of the time, and I felt a hint of pity in her eyes. I sipped my tea, which was in a delicate golden-rimmed glass cup, and began to feel a little more comfortable. It was almost as if I had gone to the house of my own acquaintances for a casual visit. Akram offered me some rice cookies, and I took one. Mr. Moosavi started talking to Ali about his business. He owned a shop at the Bazaar of Tehran and imported and exported goods, including Persian rugs and pistachios. Dinner was soon served. There was long-grain rice topped with saffron, roasted chicken, beef and herb stew, and salad. Although everything smelled delicious, I didn’t feel hungry. Maybe my parents were having dinner, too.

“This is a difficult situation, Marina,” Mr. Moosavi said after we were finished eating. “And you have the right to know my opinion. You need to know where you stand, especially because you’re so young.”

As a religious Muslim, Mr. Moosavi followed the custom of never looking a
namahram
—not a close relative—woman in the eyes.

“Babah, we’ve discussed this matter a million times,” Ali began to protest.

“Yes, we have, but I don’t remember Marina being present at any of those discussions. So, please bear with me and let me talk to my future daughter-in-law.”

“Yes, Babah.”

“Dear girl, you have to know that I do understand your difficulties. I need to ask you a few questions, and I need you to answer me truthfully. Is this acceptable to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has my son treated you well?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered, looking at Ali. He smiled at me.

“Do you wish to marry him?”

“I don’t wish to marry him,” I said, “but he wishes to marry me. He has gone through a lot of trouble to save my life. I understand my situation. He has promised to take good care of me.”

I hoped I had not said anything wrong.

Mr. Moosavi said I was a smart girl and much more mature than my age. He told me that I had been an enemy of God and of the Islamic government, and I had deserved to die, but Ali had intervened because he believed I could learn from my mistakes and change. Mr. Moosavi hoped that I realized that the person I had been before Evin was dead. He said I would soon begin a new life as a Muslim, and my conversion would wash away my sins. He also said he held his son responsible to his promises to me. He had tried to talk Ali out of his decision to marry me, but Ali had refused to listen. Ali had always been a good son and had never done anything against his father’s will. Ali had never insisted on anything so much, so Mr. Moosavi had agreed to allow the marriage to take place only if I agreed to convert to Islam. He understood that my family might reject me if I converted, and he promised that as long as I honored my new faith and behaved in a respectable Islamic manner and as long as I was a faithful wife to his son, I was his daughter, and he would personally protect me and ensure my well-being.

“Do we all have an understanding on this matter?” he asked when he finished speaking.

“Yes,” everyone said.

I was surprised by Ali’s father’s efforts to resolve a difficult situation. Even though our perspectives were completely opposite one another, I decided that I respected Mr. Moosavi. I could see that he loved Ali and wanted him to be happy. If my brother had wanted to marry a girl my father disapproved of, my father would never have called a family meeting but would have told my brother that if he married that girl, he would never see him again.

“So, Marina,” said Mr. Moosavi. “I welcome you to this family. You’re my daughter now. Because of the unusual circumstances, we’ll have a private marriage ceremony here in this house, and you, my dear, are under no pressure to inform your family for now. We’ll be your family and will provide you with everything you need. You, my son, have always been good to us, and we wish you happiness in your marriage. You have our blessing.”

Ali stood up, kissed his father, and thanked him. His mother was crying as she embraced me.

“What do you think about my family? Did you like them?” Ali asked me on our way back to Evin.

“They’re very good to you. My family is different.”

“What do you mean by ‘different’?”

I told him that I loved my parents and missed them but they had always been very distant to me; we had never had a real conversation about anything. He said he was sorry to hear this and told me his father had been very serious about my being a part of his family. “In about a week, we’ll have a small ceremony in Evin for you to convert, and our wedding will be on the Friday about two weeks after that,” he said.

Everything was happening so fast I couldn’t keep up. He told me there was no reason to worry; all I needed to think about was decorating the house. He was planning to take me shopping the next day. I couldn’t understand how I could possibly go shopping.

I had expected his family to be mean and cruel to me. But they had been very kind. They had been everything my family had never been. It had been difficult for me to see Ali as a son, but now I knew that he loved and was loved.

“By the way, anyone converting to Islam has to attend religion and Koran classes and has to choose a Muslim name. You’ve already studied Islam since you were arrested, so you just need a name. I want you to know that I think you have a beautiful name, I love it, and I’ll refuse to call you anything else, but you have to choose something just for the record,” he said.

I was even going to have a new name. It was as if he were taking me apart, piece by piece; I was being dissected alive. He could call me whatever he wanted.

“You can choose a name for me,” I said.

“No. I want you to do it yourself.”

The first name that came into my mind was Fatemeh, and I said it out loud.

“My mother’s name! She’ll be very glad!”

I was going to turn my back on Christ. There was no way out. I thought of Judas. He had also betrayed Jesus. Was I walking the same path? Only at the end did he realize the terrible thing he had done, so he took his own life. In despair, he lost all faith and hope and surrendered to darkness. Wasn’t this his greatest mistake? Maybe if he had faced the truth, maybe if he had asked God for forgiveness, his soul could have been saved. When Jesus was arrested, St. Peter said three times that he didn’t know Jesus, but St. Peter believed in His forgiveness and sought it. God was love. Jesus was tortured, and He died a painful, terrible death. I didn’t need to explain anything to Him. He already knew.

I had to say good-bye to Andre, only a good-bye and nothing more. He didn’t have to know everything. I also had to tell my parents, but I could start by telling them that I had converted to Islam and see their reaction. I also wanted to see my church for one last time. Maybe then, I could move on with my new life.

Ali brought me some fresh
barbari
bread and cheese for breakfast the next morning.

“Are you ready to go shopping?” he asked after we were done eating.

“Yes, but I have to ask you something before we go.”

“What?”

“Do you really want to help me love you?”

“Yes, I do.” He looked surprised.

“Then take me to my church, just once, to say good-bye.”

“I’ll take you. Anything else?”

I told him that there was one more thing, and I knew he wouldn’t like it. I explained that I understood that we had an agreement. I was going to remain true to my word and do my very best to be a good wife, but I needed to say good-bye to Andre. If I didn’t do this, my past would never leave me.

I could see in his eyes that he wasn’t angry.

“Well, I guess I have to accept that your heart can’t change overnight. I’m going to let you see him only once, but I want you to know that I’m doing this against my will and just to make you happy.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll make the arrangements. He’ll be allowed to come and see you at visitation time, probably not this one, but the one after that.”

I thanked him and said I was planning to tell my parents about my conversion at the next visitation.

“Are you going to tell them about our marriage, too?”

“No, not yet. I’m going to do it step by step.”

“Whatever you think is best for you,” he said.

I converted to Islam about a week later. The ceremony was held after the Friday prayer, which was celebrated outdoors in a quiet, wooded area of Evin. Carpets covered the grassy ground. Evin employees and guards sat in rows, first the men and then the women, but the majority were men. Everyone faced a wooden platform where Ayatollah Ghilani, who was the
imam-eh Jomeh
—the leader of the Friday prayer—that day, was to give a speech and lead the
namaz.
I followed Ali to the last couple of rows where women sat. Everyone was seated except a tall woman who was standing, looking around. She was Sister Maryam. She smiled, took my hand, and told me I could sit next to her. Soon, Ayatollah Ghilani arrived and began his speech. He told the crowd about the evils of the United States and praised all that the revolutionary guards and the employees of the Courts of Islamic Revolution were doing to protect Islam. Then, after the
namaz,
Ayatollah Ghilani called my name and asked me to go to the platform. Sister Maryam squeezed my hand, and I stood up, feeling a little dizzy. Everyone was staring at me. With shaky steps, I made my way to the ayatollah, and he asked me to say a very simple sentence: “I testify that there is no God except Allah, and that Mohammad is His prophet.” To show approval, the crowd yelled
“Allaho akbar”
three times. I wasn’t a Christian anymore.

Sparrows continued to chirp happily on the branches of the surrounding trees, and the mountain breeze ruffled the leaves, making sunlight quiver on its way to the ground. The sky remained as blue as before. I was waiting for God’s anger. I wanted a bolt of lightning to come and strike me where I stood. Ali sat in the first row, and the look of love on his face struck me harder than lightning ever could. It made my heart ache with guilt. “Love one another, the way I have loved you,” Jesus had said. Did He expect me to love Ali? How could He possibly expect such a thing?

Ali rose and gave me a folded black chador.