What We Owe Read online

  I remember years later. Long after we fled. Long after Hayedeh fled. When the news of her death reached us, Masood barely looked up from his newspaper. Just said three words:

  “One less whore.”

  When i remember that party, the feeling of loss cuts even deeper. It was so perfect. My sisters and mother cooked for days. Our uncle hung lanterns across the yard. He invited some musician friends, too. A singer with a silky voice, an elderly man on a tombak and his son on sitar. Neighbors and relatives flowed through the garden gate. They whistled and cheered, excited about the future. Even agha Hossein came by. He stopped at the door and held his hat to his chest and waited. After I cautiously approached him he cleared his throat.

  “Congratulations,” he said, handing over a small gift.

  I rushed to kiss him on the cheek. It was as if his presence confirmed my every hope for the life that awaited me. Everything would turn out fine, and nothing was as bad as I feared. He turned and left without saying more, but it didn’t matter. I followed his back with my eyes until he disappeared through his own door, and then I ran over to my sisters again. Ran like a child.

  The musicians sang and played everything we asked them to, and we took turns running to them with expectant eyes and a request for the next song. We danced. I don’t even think any of us ate any of the food. We danced and we sang. There were no nuances. No shadows. Only joy. My mother was sending a daughter to medical school. The sole provider to seven girls. She stayed away, but finally Noora ran into the kitchen and pulled her out. We grabbed her by the arms and pushed her and she laughed and stepped into our ring and threw the dishtowel over her shoulder and danced. She danced and sang, and when the song was over, she came up to me and took my face between her rough hands, angular and callused from all those years in the salon. She kissed my forehead. Long and hard. Noora whistled, and I closed my eyes to hide the tears welling up. Then she left and stayed inside for the rest of the evening, but it didn’t matter. I knew I’d given her something meaningful.

  He was there that night. We had never met him before. The Soltani family brought him along. He’d just moved to the city to study at the university. They thought it was fitting. Thought he’d like meeting other students. I didn’t notice him at first—what I noticed was that Noora was talking to someone for a long time. Someone who was laughing at her jokes and listening to her bubbling thoughts and observations. It was only later in the evening, when I sat on the steps with my platform shoes next to me, rubbing my sore feet, that she pulled him over. That I saw him.

  “Nahid. Nahid, this is Masood! He’s going to be studying agriculture. His father is a farmer! What is it he raises? Oh yeah, worms! Silkworms! And they spin threads and the threads make carpets and . . . It’s very important work! The pride of Iran. Can you imagine!”

  Masood laughed. A warm, chuckling laugh. Not self-conscious, or formed in the mouth, but a real laugh, the kind that comes from deep in the belly.

  “For my father, it’s very important, but the pride of Iran it is not. I don’t know if we have any pride left.”

  Those words made me look up. When I met his eyes they were both inviting and defiant.

  “I thought we were the pride of Iran. Its beautiful women.”

  I said the words as if it were natural for me to say such things. To flirt. It was not. I’d never done it before. I remember hoping Noora wouldn’t make fun of me, hoping she’d let me get away with it.

  He sat down on the steps next to me. Smiled so all his teeth were exposed.

  “You’re not our pride, you’re our heart.”

  Noora whistled.

  “Don Juan. Warning: Don Juan!”

  Then she ran away and we stayed sitting there. I had no idea I had so much to talk about. Had so much going on in my head. But he seemed to know, know exactly.

  We talked, Masood and me. We talked as the music fell silent and the lamps went out. We talked as friends and neighbors came up and kissed my cheeks, congratulating me one last time. We sat on the steps and talked all that first night. Maryam peered out between the curtains from time to time, watching over us.

  He had ideas, more radical than any I’d ever heard. Ideas about tearing down all the old structures that locked us into our destinies. He talked about the people, about the people’s right to bread. He spoke of justice as if it were a party, as if it were our job to arrange it. Send out the invitations. As the sun rose, he leaned back and rested on his arms with eyes closed. His fair hair curled at his forehead and gleamed like gold in the morning light. I looked at him, not the least bit tired. I remember that feeling so well. The feeling of having been awake all night, of having danced until my feet ached, having sung and talked until my throat was crackling dry, but still not being satisfied. On the contrary, I wanted more. That hunger.

  I think that’s what life is. Being hungry. I’m trying to think of anything now that would be worth staying awake all night for. Nothing comes to me, not a solitary thought. Am I full now, I wonder. Maybe that is why the cancer came to me.

  Masood came back a few evenings later. i sat on the kitchen floor, in Papa’s old place, hemming my skirts on Mama’s sewing machine. Beside me the radio blared, and I swayed to the music. The feeling from the party was still with me, pristine. There weren’t many days left until the university semester started, and I had so much faith in that place. In what could happen when thinking people were brought together. In my naïveté the length of my skirt was a primary concern, was one of my first thoughts. I should have shorter skirts. I should be a free woman with free legs.

  Suddenly Noora came running in and threw herself on the floor next to me. Her eyes sparkled behind thick glasses, and in her hand she held a large bouquet of flowers.

  “He’s here, he’s back! He’s here to see you, Nahid!”

  I waved at her to turn down the volume on the radio.

  “Who, Noora—who is here?”

  “Who? What do you mean, who? As if you aren’t thinking about him all the time. Masood, of course, he’s back. He’s in love with you, Nahid, I’m sure of it. Oh, can you believe it? Someone’s in love with you! A doctor and loved. How does it feel, Nahid?”

  I pulled her to me, laughing. Kissed her forehead.

  “I love you, kiddo, you know that? You’re the one who’s loved.”

  She tore loose. Always in such a hurry.

  “He’s waiting for you, Nahid. He’s standing outside waiting—he didn’t want to come in and disturb us. But the flowers are for me! They’re not yours. I got them because I set you up.”

  She buried her face in the bouquet and breathed in deeply.

  “They smell like love!”

  I stood up and went to him.

  I arrived on registration day wearing my short-short skirt, with my hair blow-dried into soft waves that curled on my shoulders. The blouse I wore was Gita’s, a soft silk with a bow on the chest. I have a photo somewhere. Of me and my mother next to each other at the gate just before I go. She’s a head shorter with a broad smile on her face. Her smiles were rare. I have a childish, playful expression. Noora must have been standing behind the camera.

  I know I felt proud on that day, at that moment. Proud and happy. I should have been satisfied with what I had. Not grasped for more. But I did anyway.

  The cliques were clear from the first day. People stood in clusters, many spoke quietly, but there were also those who already had slogans. You heard them, like the first popcorn kernels to pop in the pot. One here, one there. Not all the time, not often, but clearly. With a promise that there would be more. I walked with my binders pressed to my chest and my wooden heels clacking on the mosaic beneath my feet. It didn’t feel so right anymore. It didn’t feel so free. The girls in those clusters dressed like boys. They wore bell-bottoms and button-down shirts with their faces bare of makeup and their hair in braids. They moved freely, effortlessly. They were illuminated. As if they wanted something so big that the largeness of the idea itself lit them up.<
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  I was supposed to meet Masood at the cafeteria, and I saw him before he saw me. He was leaning against the wall with a cigarette in his mouth, gesturing energetically. He was surrounded by people. One of those groups. I froze, suddenly overcome with intense shame. Ashamed of my bare legs and all the energy I’d put into dressing up for freedom. What did I know about being free? I almost turned around to go, but he saw me. Our eyes met, and he stopped midsentence. I don’t know how to explain that kind of thing. Thinking about it now, I despise my own naïveté. But in that moment, he lit up when he saw me. As if from life itself. His face shone with joy and admiration, and the longer he looked at me the more my insecurity fell away. It didn’t matter what clothes I wore or what doubts I had. I felt that he saw who I was. That he saw what I wanted. That he’d help me get it. I felt that he wanted my freedom and strength, might even want it more than I did.

  It was a warm evening a few weeks later. i’d sat in the library with my books until late. I used to rush home after lectures to help my mother, but something was happening to me at the university. I think I started to feel like I was a person in and of myself. That I existed beyond my relationship to others. It was a completely new idea, and it lasted about as long as a fart.

  I didn’t take the bus home; instead I strolled through the city. Looking at young people in love. A couple whispering to each other on a park bench. Another couple arguing loudly in front of an ice cream stand. It wasn’t for me, had never been for me. I didn’t want to be somebody’s wife. I didn’t want to devote my life to caring for others. I didn’t want to turn out like my mother. The last thing I wanted was to turn out like my mother. But I couldn’t stop thinking about love. About Masood. I wanted to be with him, but not belong to him. And it doesn’t work that way—it never has.

  When I finally opened the gate, the lights were off. I thought they were sleeping, my mother and Noora. But as I crossed the small courtyard and opened the front door, I heard singing in the kitchen. Must be the radio, I thought as I hung up my jacket and unpacked my books in the hall. But the voice reminded me of someone, and I heard something else. Running water. I tiptoed to the kitchen, and the first thing I saw was my mother. She was sitting in her usual seat with her eyes closed and a teacup cradled in her hands. She rocked gently back and forth, rocking herself along with the song. I stepped in and was startled to see Masood’s back. He stood at the sink with his sleeves rolled up, doing the dishes with tender movements while he sang.

  They hadn’t noticed that I came in, and I didn’t want to disturb their tranquility, so I left them. I left them and went to my bed, looked at Noora, who was sound asleep in the bed next to mine, listened to the soft singing coming from the kitchen, and I remember that my eyes filled with tears. His presence gave me a sense of security I’d never felt before.

  One friday morning at dawn masood knocked lightly on our door. I ran toward him. I’d stashed the skirts and blouses in the back of my closet. Instead, I wore bell-bottoms, comfortable shoes, and one of Noora’s plaid school shirts. My face was free of makeup, and I bristled a little as he embraced me. I felt bare and exposed, more naked than I ever felt in short skirts. But that would change. Soon, I wouldn’t see myself as a face anymore, but as a bundle of thoughts and ideas. And they protected me more than makeup ever had.

  We were headed up into the mountains for a meeting with the others. The people Masood was standing with on registration day had become our group. We needed to avoid police and soldiers, and the proud mountains swallowed us whole.

  We drove Masood’s car out of the city, but parked it a safe distance from the foot of the mountains. Then we hiked up. Building strength, building stamina. Resistance. It was magical. The sun burned low on the horizon. The air was clear and still a bit chilly. The adrenaline pumped through our bodies. Feet steadily tramping on, steadily carrying us forward. That special sound of feet. Feet that trek, feet that run, feet that struggle.

  As we approached the meeting place, Masood started forming sounds in his mouth. A tone that meant we were there. Another that meant no one was following us. And then came the answer. The sound that meant that the coast was clear.

  They were expecting us. Saber and Rozbeh and Ali and Soraya. That was before we had assumed names, before we started living underground in hiding. Back then it was something other than what it became. We greeted each other with warm kisses on the cheek and excited voices. Ali served tea and Saber, our leader, started the meeting. He was leaning forward with one foot on a rock, his arms resting on his thigh. The sight set off butterflies in my stomach. Saber’s shirtsleeves were rolled up, and he wore a thin vest and heavy shoes. A cascade of mountain peaks at his back. They shone yellow in the sunlight, and they looked so powerful. I think we saw ourselves as part of those mountains. We thought we were just as powerful. Just as steady. Immortal. A people of stone.

  When we were done with politics, Rozbeh lifted his sitar and started to play. From where we sat we could see other groups, hundreds of people. Music came from many directions. Harmonica, song. Masood whistled along, and Soraya sang. Now winter is over, and spring is in bloom. After the first verse, I joined in. The red flower of the sun is back, and the night is over. We sat there with our boots and berets and braids and bare faces. In our breasts are forests of stars.

  That’s how it started for us.

  The revolution fell upon us like a rain of stars. I’m not sure when we realized it was a revolution we were part of. That we were revolutionaries. We wanted to be, of course. But it began like a childish dream. Children dreaming of being astronauts, or movie stars, or president.

  When we met Saber he was about to graduate as an engineer. He was like a lion. So handsome. So big. So strong. You could see the strength rippling through the muscles on his back as he walked in front of us. Everyone was in love with him, boys and girls. You don’t meet very many people like that in your life. I suppose I’m glad I had the opportunity. Still, I wish I’d never seen him. Never met Masood. Wish he never came to our house. Wish I’d wandered around campus in my miniskirts and lived life as it was.

  I think now, we were idiots. We had everything. We had everything you could really wish for. We were the most fortunate people in our country. In many ways, we had more than the truly rich. We had a future to build with our own hands. Saber. He should have been satisfied with becoming a well-dressed man with a beautiful wife and a house and kids and cars and whiskey. But no. We constructed principles. We wanted true freedom. We wanted it for ourselves, but above all we wanted it for everyone else. That was the attraction, the beauty. To bear the weight of justice on our shoulders. To be soldiers for justice.

  We thought it was in our hands! That it was something we could enact. Naïve, idiotic children. But it was the best thing I’ve done in my life. Sometimes I wish it had been my life. What came later . . . that I could have done without.

  Noora and i crept out of bed long before sunrise that day. We dressed in thrilling anticipation. Mama didn’t hear us. I remember for a moment thinking we should wake her. I should tell her that Noora was coming with us this time. But I didn’t. I was afraid she would protest and that Noora would be disappointed. I let Mama sleep, and Noora and I went to meet Masood, who was waiting for us in the courtyard.

  When I look back on it, I know this was a few years later, but it all feels like a single movement. The transfer of power had taken place, and we weren’t satisfied. The universities had been closed to silence people like us. But we continued. With our meetings, with our demonstrations.

  I don’t know why we let her come along. I still can’t understand why. She wanted to so badly. She’d been nagging us for so long. She was so excited by our words. By what she saw between us. By our comrades who came and went, the whispers and loud laughter.

  “The struggle is as much mine as yours,” she said to me, and Masood laughed. We couldn’t disagree with her. Our sweet little Noora. A fourteen-year-old woman warrior.

  We took
her hands and set out into the darkness. We met up with the rest of the group under the bridge. Saber nodded at Noora. A silent gesture that made her grow several centimeters. Then he motioned for us to follow him, and we did. At an unknown gate, he stopped and waved for Masood and me to come inside. The others stayed outside and kept watch. We went down into a dark basement. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, and I remember my hand searching for Masood’s. We held each other tight. A woman stood up from her place in front of a hot printing press and walked over to us. She handed a stuffed canvas bag to Saber, without saying a word.

  Out on the street, we divided the newly printed leaflets between us, and Saber pointed out the route for each person. We thought we were seasoned by then. We’d done it so many times by now. Going around the city pushing our flyers in under doors. We spread our message. Encouraging and stirring up the masses. The flyers all said basically the same thing, though we put so much time and energy into the wording.

  Resistance.

  Struggle.

  Justice.

  Equality.

  Freedom.

  Saber had given Noora her own stack, but I didn’t dare let her go alone.

  “Give me those!”

  She protested.

  “Nahid! I want to, Nahid. These are mine.”

  “You can go with me. That’s good enough.”

  I snatched the leaflets from her hand and our eyes met. She looked at me as if I’d stolen something from her. An experience. Like a night at the movies or a new pair of shoes.

  “Noora, this is serious! You come with me.”

  Noora stretched to take back the flyers, but Masood stood in the way. He put his hands on her shoulders. Looked at her with the paternal gaze I knew she needed.