Scattered Pearls Read online

  Reza’s sister and his mother, who was also there, were very welcoming and kind. And I could tell that they were happy with what they saw in me. I could imagine them saying to themselves, ‘Wow, this girl is good looking. She’s healthy. She’s nice. The eldest son is going to get somewhere after all! Not only will he marry, but he has found a good wife.’ At no point was I concerned that I was being tested. If I was, I just knew I would pass all tests – that they would love me.

  The next trip we planned as part of my introduction to Reza’s family was to the city of Gonbad-e Kavus, 500 kilometres north-east of Tehran. This was where Reza’s parents lived; his father had been born in Nishapur, 300 kilometres further east. This trip would be longer than the previous one, involving a few nights away. I was to travel with Reza, his brother (the one I had met in the lift) and his youngest sister. As none of us had a car, we would travel by bus.

  When I told my mother about our plans she had no problem with the idea, even though Reza and I were not yet formally engaged. Shahin used to say that she could ‘send Sohila into soldiers’ barracks and she would come out untouched’. She had the same lack of concern about the integrity of my sisters. My father would not have approved but we avoided another outburst of temper by not telling him. Chances were that he would not even notice I was gone. And anyway, I was quite sure of Reza’s trustworthiness – he had hardly touched me at all since the start of our relationship.

  We were not long into our travels – only a few hours from Tehran – when it became clear that everything would not be as easy as we thought. In this period of post-revolution Iran, many public services were run down, even chaotic. Bus timetables were virtually meaningless, and buses often terminated short of their advertised destination, sometimes in the middle of nowhere (presumably near the driver’s home). This meant that we ended up doing a lot of walking. Sometimes we tried to hitchhike but with four of us in the group that was difficult. However, we weren’t in any real hurry so none of us minded walking too much. Reza wasn’t one to make much small talk, but his brother and sister were comfortable to be with. Along the way I collected nine shiny pebbles of various colours.

  ‘These stones represent the members of your family,’ I told the others, ‘and your gift of your brother to me.’ I would keep these pebbles for years.

  As we approached the city of Semnan, Reza and his siblings agreed that we should call on their eldest sister, Batool, who lived there with her family. We were behind time so could perhaps spend the night with them before moving on to Gonbad-e Kavus. However, Reza’s sister thought we should ring Batool and tell her we were coming. With Reza’s new girlfriend among the group, Batool would likely have rudar basi – concern that her house be prepared for a guest. We found a public telephone but it wasn’t working. It took our coins but didn’t seem to register them. After a few tries, Reza became increasingly impatient; suddenly he started swearing and kicking the phone to try to make it work. I was a bit surprised; I had never seen him lose his temper before. I commented quietly that it was not like him to behave like this and he soon calmed down.

  As we moved on, Reza’s sister fell behind with me. She tried to make light of what had just happened. ‘He can be short tempered,’ she said with a faint smile, ‘but thankfully not very often.’ For me it was like I had seen a brief glimpse of my father in Reza, however, I didn’t let it concern me for long. After all, it was not abnormal for a man to have a short temper. And it was late. We were all tired from a long day of travel.

  When we arrived unannounced at Batool’s home she was alone with her two young children. She was very gracious and welcoming, especially to me. She was such a beautiful woman: tall, with light-brown wavy hair. I noticed her look me up and down, but as in Karaj I was not at all concerned that I had anything to worry about. They all kept saying how happy they were that I was to be their future sister-in-law. In honour of the expectation of our marriage, Reza and I were shown to our hosts’ own bedroom.

  It was a beautiful evening. I asked if I could have a bath to rest my tired feet and legs, and I will never forget its lasting warmth. Batool prepared for us an enormous meal of traditional Persian dishes, at which we were joined by her husband, who had returned from his work. After dinner, Reza retired to bed while I stayed and talked to the two sisters. It was so comfortable – we were like three old friends. I told them about my family, and they shared stories of theirs. I was careful not to pry too much about their eldest brother, though they did laugh as they told me how spoilt Reza had been as a child, growing up with so many sisters; they had all waited on him all the time. ‘He never needed to make a cup of tea, do any washing or anything around the house.’

  When I eventually went to bed, Reza was already fast asleep. I put on my long-sleeved flannelette pyjamas and slipped under the blankets next to my future husband. I wondered if Reza might turn over and kiss me goodnight, but he did not stir. I was careful not to do anything to wake him. It had been a long day and for only a few moments before falling asleep I basked in the warmth of both the bath and the welcome I had been given.

  ~

  The next morning, after thank yous and goodbyes, we left to continue our journey to Gonbad-e Kavus. I have never seen Batool again since that visit.

  Reza’s parents were very pleased to see us when we finally arrived at their home. There was much celebration, and plenty of excitement from Reza’s younger siblings, who were still children. There was even the sacrifice of a sheep in my honour, including a procession as the sheep was brought to the house along a narrow, dusty alleyway, followed by all the kids of the area laughing and screaming and jumping. Who knows what the poor sheep was thinking!

  The house was double storey but small. It was very neat and clean, decorated with Persian carpets, some crystal vases and fruit bowls. There was a mirror with two candle holders – a typical marriage gift. At the back was a tidy yard with a few fruit trees. Again, Reza and I were given the main bedroom to sleep in, and carpets, blankets and pillows were laid out as if for a bridal bed. And again we slept more like brother and sister, me in my long pyjamas and Reza with his back to me. I congratulated myself on being so clean, so pure, though in truth it was unthinkable for me to take any initiative. I reflected on how two people can sleep in the same bed, remaining physically separate but connected by their souls.

  We stayed for a few days in Gonbad-e Kavus and spent some time exploring the city. It is famous for the large Tower of Kavus at its centre; it’s over 1000 years old, and a rare example of early Persian architecture and decoration.

  On the trip back to Tehran, I thought about how much I had enjoyed this trip. I had met most of Reza’s family and liked them very much. I felt that I had been accepted by them all and they were looking forward to me being one of them. I would be proud to be Reza’s wife and a member of his family. While deep in my heart I was hatching many plans for our future together, for now all I cared for was to be married.

  The journey home was as broken as the one out of Tehran. We had to change buses a number of times, eventually finding ourselves on a small, private minibus with a driver who promised to take us all the way. At one point along the way – it seemed to be the middle of nowhere – our bus was stopped by members of the Pasdaran, the same Revolutionary Guard that had arrested my friends in Shoosh Square a year or so before.

  Reza’s sister was wearing a chador loosely, but I was not. Head covering was still not compulsory then, but it had reached the point that it was a good idea for a woman to cover her head if she wanted to avoid attracting attention. As we pulled up I rummaged through my bag and found one of two handmade shawls that Reza’s mother had given me. One of them was black, and the other white with a silver thread through it. I wrapped the white one around my head before one of the guards got onto the bus and started questioning us. When they learnt that Reza and I were travelling together but that I was not his wife, they became suspicious. They told us to get into one of a number of Jeeps they had with them
; we would be taken down the road to the Komiteh station, which turned out to be nothing more than an abandoned house with no water and a number of broken windows. I thought Reza might have tried to argue with them but he chose not to. Clearly, he felt it better just to go along with them, figuring we would soon be allowed to continue on our way.

  At the Komiteh station the four of us were separated and interviewed. I was asked who I was, my address and what I was doing with this man. My bag was taken and searched, and I was relieved when the guard failed to find, at the bottom, a newspaper of the MEK, a group that opposed the new regime. While not yet illegal, having a newspaper like this among my belongings would not have been looked on positively by the Pasdaran. Eventually the Pasdaran guard ran out of questions. He said that he would need to verify my story and asked for my telephone number so he could ring my home and speak to my father. Now I became worried. I always felt I could argue my case with the Pasdaran, but I wasn’t so sure about how my father would take finding out that I had been travelling with Reza before we were engaged. I had no choice but to give the man my number, and let out a silent sigh of relief when I heard that it was my mother who answered the phone. The officer insisted that he wanted to speak to my father, but I could tell that my mother was making many excuses. She told me later that she had said Asghar was very sick – that he’d had a stroke. It was the sort of lie that we were increasingly becoming accustomed to telling people in authority – anything to turn their attention to somewhere or someone else, as we were not protected by the rule of law. Finally, the officer had to believe my mother when she assured him that Reza was her future son-in-law.

  In the end they didn’t have much choice but to let us go. We were driven back to the main road in one of the Jeeps and caught the next bus.

  We travelled the rest of the way back to Tehran uninterrupted. The small bus had a number of passengers already when we got on, so Reza ended up sitting up front next to the driver while his sister and I sat next to each other a few rows back. It was quiet except for the hum of tyres on the road and the brief buffeting from passing cars and trucks. A number of the passengers slept as the world outside faded from dusk to dark. I relaxed back into my seat with the satisfaction of having satisfied Reza’s family that I would be a good wife for their son and brother – as I always knew I would – and that Reza would be a good husband for me. I could see no barrier to our marriage now.

  I started humming, then singing, my favourite Dolly Parton song, first to myself then with a little more confidence. ‘Jolene, Jolene, Jolene . . . Jol-e-e-ene . . .’ The song had been popular with the Americans at Helicopter Sazi before they left, and while I didn’t know all the words I knew enough to sound convincing. I sang loudly enough to be heard through the bus, but not so loudly that I would wake anybody. No one complained – there was something about singing a song in English that gave me unspoken permission to do so – and Reza’s sister and some others nearby smiled as I sang. I could see Reza’s reflection in the windscreen, and every now and then he would partially raise then drop his hand. Perhaps he was trying to tell me to be quiet. I don’t know. It didn’t stop me, anyway, and I sang this song over and over for most of the last part of our journey.

  ~

  Reza and I became engaged in September 1980. His parents travelled to Tehran from their home in Gonbad-e Kavus to ask my parents’ permission for us to marry. My parents still barely knew Reza, so they really had to trust my choice. I knew my father still didn’t like Reza but his opinion was of no consequence to me as long as he remained civil. My mother simply trusted me to make the right decision. I don’t think they ever discussed the matter between themselves.

  The other girls at Helicopter Sazi were very excited. They were so jealous that I had found a wonderful man and would soon be getting married. I think they were also surprised, as I had not been someone who had joined in all their endless conversations about boys and boyfriends.

  Perhaps the biggest event in our engagement happened while I was at work, and it was nothing to do with me and Reza.

  At 2 pm on 22 September 1980 my colleagues and I were sitting at our desks as usual, not doing very much as usual, when without any warning there was an enormous noise – a noise unlike any of us had ever heard before. The whole building shook. We all looked at each other. People who had been walking around froze where they were. It was quite surreal. The first thought was of an earthquake but somehow we knew it wasn’t that; earthquakes don’t come with massive explosions.

  For a few minutes it went strangely quiet before a loud siren began to sound. Word started to get around that the airport had been bombed. But who would do that? And why? No one knew what was going on. Iraq was mentioned, but that didn’t really make sense.

  After a short while the bosses came around and we were told to go home. Everyone in the computer department seemed to be in a state of shock. We were too frightened to go outside, but too scared to stay where we were as well. Once out on the street there was a sense of panic, with people running everywhere. There were no taxis so I walked for a while then caught the bus. It was one of those rare situations where rather than keeping to themselves, everyone was talking. Some people had radios and we learnt that rumours about a bombing were true, and that the Iraqi Air Force were the culprits.

  When I got home I rushed inside and told my mother to turn on the radio.

  ‘Listen, Mum,’ I said. ‘There is a war! Iraqi planes have attacked Iran!’

  Shahin found it hard to believe. ‘War? What war?’

  ‘Turn on the radio. The airport was bombed and we were dismissed early.’

  We soon heard a formal announcement that Iraq had attacked Iran and we were now at war. It became clear that a number of airfields around Iran had been bombed. The next day we learnt that Iraqi ground forces had crossed into Iran at various points along the shared border, and that the Iranian Air Force, including a number of helicopters maintained by Helicopter Sazi, were fighting back.

  The supposed reason for the invasion was that Iraqi president Saddam Hussein, a Sunni Muslim, feared that the rise of the new Shia-Islam regime under Khomeini would inspire insurgency among Iraq’s suppressed majority Shia population. Conflict between Sunni and Shia, or Shi’ite, Muslims has been a constant for centuries and continues with extreme violence to this day; the differences in the beliefs of the two branches are complex but originate with disagreement about how leadership of the religion should have succeeded the prophet Mohammed. There are some parallels with the at times violent disagreements between Catholic and Protestant Christians that have taken place, especially in Northern Ireland, with many on both sides not really understanding why or what they are fighting – only that they are fighting ‘the other’. Of the total Muslim population in the world, Sunnis form the vast majority, but Iran and Iraq both have majority Shia populations. It’s important to point out that few Muslims, and even fewer Iranians, fully understand or care about any of this. Certainly Saddam Hussein’s fears were not well founded: Khomeini’s Shia regime did not have the support of most Iranians, let alone Iraqis. This particular war would continue for the next eight years and result in the death or injury of over a million people; there are still many crippled men leading difficult lives today as a result. Yet it achieved nothing. The eventual peace agreement reverted the Iran–Iraq border to exactly what it had been before the war. If anything, the only ‘achievement’ was to further entrench the Khomeini regime due to the rise in nationalism that always accompanies a war.

  In Tehran, for ordinary families such as ours, life settled back to something like normal not long after those first attacks. I did not witness any other bombings, though we did hear bombs exploding in suburbs not far from ours. There was some fear that the reservoir across the road could be a target, but this came to nothing. At times it felt like we were living in a World War II movie as air raid sirens would go off, sending us into shelters. At my parents’ home, there was a basement room underneath the balco
ny with high windows along one side for natural light. The local vernacular for a room like this was gol-khoneh, or flower nursery, though this room was mainly used by my father as a store room for engine parts and tools for his taxis. This became our bomb shelter. When the siren went off one night we all headed downstairs. My father took a small oil lamp, which worried me a lot – power was cut off in the city if incoming Iraqi aircraft were detected and I was concerned that a pilot might be guided by this tiny light.

  Mostly at this time, however, I was busy with wedding preparations: choosing a wedding dress, buying rings and gifts and so on, and organising our reception. Usually this would be the job of the groom and his family. However, as Reza had not seen a lot of his family since returning from Australia, he spent the early months of the war in Karaj with his sister. And in any case, he had nowhere to stay in Tehran – staying with us for a length of time while we were engaged would not have been appropriate. Most of the wedding planning therefore became my job. But I did not mind either his absence or doing the work. I did not pine for him as I was probably supposed to. In fact I was more comfortable when he was away because I was still fearful that he would discover more of my father’s bad habits, and because it meant my mother had no need to go to extra effort with her cooking. Being busy helped me block the war out of my mind, safe in the knowledge that soon I would be leaving Iran. The sound of that first bomb blast lives with me even today.

  As we got closer to our wedding day, Reza and I mainly saw each other when he occasionally came to visit me at home, sometimes staying overnight. Though he never said so explicitly, he was still determined that our relationship remain platonic. He avoided any overt show of physical affection towards me, clearly wanting to avoid any level of temptation. Either that or he had few real feelings for me – but if ever I allowed a thought like that to cross my mind it was quickly suppressed. If I’d been honest with myself, in those moments I might have recognised that I had no meaningful feelings toward Reza either, but again, if I thought this, I banished such thoughts quickly. I was like Charlotte or Lydia from Pride and Prejudice, satisfied simply that I would soon be married. And, in my case, I would also go to Australia. These two things were all that mattered.