The Book of Fate (35 page)

Siamak, on the other hand, was becoming more enthusiastic every day. He was in high spirits and had stopped causing trouble at home. It seemed as if he was letting out all his anger and frustration by shouting slogans. Gradually, he developed a particular discipline in observing religious practices. He had always had a difficult time waking up in the morning, but now he was making sure he did not miss his early morning prayers. I didn't know whether I should be happy or concerned about the changes in him. Some of the things he did, such as turning off the radio when music was being played or refusing to watch television, took me back many years and reminded me of Mahmoud's fanatical behaviour.

 

Towards the middle of September, Mahmoud announced that he wanted to hold an elaborate memorial for Father. Although it was already a month after the one-year anniversary of his passing, no one objected. Honouring the memory of that dear man and offering alms in commemoration of his pure soul were always welcome. Given that martial law and strict curfews were in force, we decided it was best to hold the ceremony at noon on a Friday and we all got busy, eagerly cooking and preparing for the event. The number of guests was increasing every minute and I was privately praising Mahmoud for his courage in arranging the ceremony during those volatile times.

On the day of the memorial, we were all busy working at Mahmoud's house from early in the morning. Ehteram-Sadat who was getting fatter every day was panting and rushing back and forth. I was peeling potatoes when she finally dropped down next to me. ‘You have gone to a lot of trouble,' I said. ‘Thank you. We are all grateful to you.'

‘Oh, don't mention it,' she said. ‘After all, it was about time for us to hold a proper prayer service for Father, God rest his soul. Besides, given the circumstances, it is a good excuse to gather people together.'

‘By the way, dear Ehteram, how is brother these days? Knock on wood; it seems you two no longer have problems with each other.'

‘Please! We are beyond all that. I hardly ever see Mahmoud to want to fight with him. By the time he comes home he is so tired and preoccupied that he leaves me and the children alone and doesn't complain about anything.'

‘Is he still as obsessive?' I asked. ‘When he performs his ablutions, does he still say, “That wasn't good enough, that wasn't good enough, I have to do it again”?'

‘May the devil's ear be deaf; he is a lot better. He is so busy that he doesn't have time to keep washing his hands and feet and repeating his ablutions. You know, this revolution has completely changed him. It is as if this was the cure to his pains. He says, “According to the Ayatollah, I am in the forefront of the revolution, which is no different than a jihad in the name of God, and I will merit God's greatest blessings.” In fact, much of his obsession is now over the revolution.'

The speeches started after lunch. We were in the back room and couldn't hear very well. Fearing that voices could be heard out on the street, no one was using a loudspeaker. The living room and dining room were packed with people and there were others in the front yard standing outside the windows. After a couple of speeches about the revolution, the tyranny of the government and our duty to overthrow the current regime, Ehteram-Sadat's uncle spoke. By then he was a well-known mullah who because of his outspokenness had spent a few months in prison and was considered a hero. He first spoke a little about Father's virtues and then he said, ‘This honourable family has for years fought for faith and country and they have suffered the wounds. In 1963, after the events of 5 June and the arrest of Ayatollah Khomeini, they were forced to leave their home and they migrated from Qum because their lives were in danger. They suffered fatalities, their son was killed, their son-in-law is still in prison and only God knows what tortures he has had to endure…'

For a few seconds, I was confused. I couldn't understand who he was talking about. I nudged Ehteram-Sadat and asked, ‘Who is he talking about?'

‘About your husband, of course!'

‘I mean the young man who was killed…'

‘Well, he's talking about Ahmad.'

‘Our Ahmad?' I exclaimed.

‘Of course! Haven't you ever wondered that he died under mysterious circumstances? In the middle of the street… and they informed us three days after the fact. And when Ali went to the coroner's office to identify his body he saw signs of assault and battery on his corpse.'

‘He probably got into a fight over drugs with another addict.'

‘Don't say such things about the dead!'

‘And who told your uncle all that rubbish about our move from Qum?'

‘Don't you know? It was after the events of 5 June that your family left Qum. Father and Mahmoud were in terrible danger. You were probably too young to remember.'

‘As a matter of fact, I remember very well,' I said irately. ‘We moved to Tehran in 1961. How could Mahmoud allow himself to say such lies to your uncle and to take advantage of people's passion and excitement?'

Now the speech was about Mahmoud, saying that from a father like that a son like him was expected: a son who had dedicated his life and wealth to the revolution and who had not turned aside from any toil or sacrifice… He financially supported the families of tens of political prisoners and watched over them like a father, the most important among them being his own sister and her family for whom he had shouldered the burden of life and had never let them feel needy or alone.

At this point, Ehteram-Sadat's uncle motioned to Siamak who suddenly stood up from among the crowd and walked over to him. It seemed as if Siamak had been trained and knew exactly when to get up and play his part. The mullah stroked Siamak's head and said, ‘This innocent child is the son of one of Islam's crusaders who has been in prison for years. The criminal hand of the regime has orphaned this boy and hundreds of others like him. Thank God that this boy has a kind and self-sacrificing uncle, Mr Mahmoud Sadeghi, who has filled the empty place of his father. Otherwise, God only knows what would have become of this beleaguered family…'

I felt nauseous. I felt as if my shirt collar was choking me. I reflexively clawed at it and the top button tore off and flew to the floor. I stood up with such fury on my face that Mother and Ehteram-Sadat became alarmed. Ehteram tugged at my chador and said, ‘Massoum, sit down. For the love of your father's spirit, sit down. It's improper.'

Mahmoud, who was sitting behind the mullah and facing the crowd, looked at me with apprehension. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't make a sound. Looking scared and surprised, Siamak who had been standing next to the mullah made his way towards me. I grabbed his arm and snapped, ‘Aren't you ashamed of yourself?'

Mother was smacking herself on the cheek and saying, ‘May God take my life! Girl, don't shame us.'

I looked at Mahmoud with loathing. There were so many things I wanted to say to him, but suddenly the reciting of elegies started and everyone stood up and began beating their chests. I made my way through the crowd and, still clutching Siamak's arm, I walked out of the house. Massoud was holding on to the hem of my chador and running behind us. I wanted to beat Siamak until he was black and blue. I opened the car door and shoved him inside. He kept asking, ‘What is the matter with you? What happened?'

‘Just shut up!'

I sounded so harsh and angry that the boys did not utter a single word all the way home. Their silence gave me time to think. I asked myself, What has this poor boy done? What is he guilty of in all this?

When we arrived home, I cursed the earth and the sky, and Mahmoud, Ali and Ehteram, and then sat down and burst into tears. Siamak was sitting in front of me, looking ashamed. Massoud brought a glass of water for me and with tears in his eyes asked me to drink it so that I would perhaps feel better. Slowly, I quietened down.

‘I don't know why you are so upset,' Siamak said. ‘Whatever it is, I am sorry.'

‘You mean you don't know? How could you not know? Tell me, is this what you do at all the events Mahmoud takes you to? Do they parade you in front of people?'

‘Yes!' he said, proudly. ‘And everyone praises Dad a lot.'

I heaved a sigh of anguish. I didn't know what to say to my son. I tried to remain calm and not frighten him.

‘Look, Siamak, we have lived without your father for four years and we have never needed anyone, especially not your uncle Mahmoud. I have struggled so that you could grow up with integrity and not with people's pity and charity, so that no one will ever look on you as needy orphans. And so far, we have always stood on our own two feet. We may have suffered some hardship, but we kept our pride and honour and your father's pride and honour. But now this freak, Mahmoud, has for his own benefit put you on display like a puppet and he is taking advantage of you. He wants people to feel sorry for you and to say, Bravo, what an excellent uncle he is. Have you ever asked yourself why in the past seven or eight months Mahmoud has suddenly taken an interest in us when in all these years he never once asked how we were faring? Look, my son, you have to be much wiser than this and not let anyone take advantage of you and your emotions. If your father finds out that Mahmoud is using you and him in this manner, he will be very upset. He doesn't agree with Mahmoud on even one single issue and he would never want himself and his family to become tools in the hands of Mahmoud and others like him.'

 

At the time, I didn't know what Mahmoud's real motives were, but I no longer allowed the boys to accompany him anywhere and I stopped returning his telephone calls.

It was mid-October. Schools and universities were often closed. I had only one term left to finish my seemingly unending studies for a bachelor's degree, but there was always a strike or a demonstration at the university and classes were not being held.

I went to different political gatherings and listened to everything that was being said, weighing it all to see whether there was any hope of saving Hamid or not. At times, I was optimistic and everything seemed bright and beautiful, and at other times, I was so disheartened that I felt as if I was plunging down a well.

Wherever a voice was being raised in defence of political prisoners I was there on the front lines, with the boys' fists waving like two small flags on either side of me. With all the pain, anger and misery I had suffered, I would shout, ‘Political prisoners must be freed.' Tears would well up in my eyes, but my heart felt lighter. Seeing the crowds alongside me, I was overwhelmed with excitement. I wanted to hold every person in my arms and kiss them. It was perhaps the first and the last time I experienced such emotions for my fellow countrymen. I felt they were all my children, my father, my mother, my brothers and my sisters.

 

Soon there were rumours that the political prisoners were going to be released. People said some of them would be freed on 26 October to coincide with the Shah's birthday. Hope was again taking root in my heart, but I tried not to believe any of the reports. I could not bear another disappointment. Hamid's father increased his efforts to secure Hamid's release. He gathered more and more letters of recommendation and sent them to the authorities. We worked hand in hand and kept each other informed of the progress we were making. I shouldered the responsibilities he assigned to me with passion and devotion.

Through our contacts we eventually learned that one thousand political prisoners were to be pardoned. Now we had to make sure that Hamid's name would be included on the list.

‘Isn't this another political game to appease the masses?' I hesitantly asked Hamid's father.

‘No!' he said. ‘Given the volatile situation, the government can't afford to do that. They have to at least release a group of the well-known prisoners so that the people see them with their own eyes and perhaps quieten down. Otherwise, the situation will get worse. Be hopeful, my girl. Be hopeful.'

But I was terrified of feeling hopeful. If Hamid was not among those released, I would be devastated. I was even more worried about the children. I was afraid that after all this hope and anticipation, they might not be able to bear the shock of defeat and disappointment. I tried hard to keep information from them, but out on the streets rumours flooded every corner like a surging torrent. Flushed with excitement, Siamak would come home with the latest news and I would coolly respond, ‘No, my son, this is all propaganda meant to pacify the people. For now, they are not likely to do any of this. God willing, when the revolution succeeds, we will open the prison gates ourselves and bring your father home.'

Hamid's father approved of my approach and adopted the same tactic with Hamid's mother.

The closer we got to 26 October, the stronger my anticipation. I impulsively kept buying things for Hamid. I could no longer curb my fantasies and thought about the plans we could make after his release. But a few days before 26 October, after a lot of running around and many meetings, Hamid's father came to the house looking dejected and exhausted. He waited until a suitable time when the boys were busy and then said, ‘The list is almost complete. Apparently they have not added Hamid's name to it. Of course, I have been assured that if the situation continues like this, he will be released, too. But chances are slim that it would be this time around; the list is mostly made up of religionists.'

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I said, ‘I knew it. If I were that lucky, my life wouldn't have turned out like this.'

In the blink of an eye, all my hopes turned into despair and with tears in my eyes I again closed the windows that had opened up in my heart. Hamid's father left. Hiding my deep sorrow and disappointment from the children was difficult.

Massoud kept hovering over me and asking, ‘What is the matter? Do you have a headache?'