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Authors: Roya Hakakian
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move to the lyrics of the “Internationale.”
Arise, ye wretched of the earth, arise, ye prisoners of starvation . . .
When the song ended, six large men in dark suits lowered the mahogany box into the pit. Stepping to the edge, Shohreh looked down. The freshly dug hole was the raw, unsightly truth the eulogies had left out. In it, she saw the shape of her days ahead. Her stoicism vanished. The gypsy within overcame her. She squatted at the edge. In her black skirt suit, her arms wrapped around her shins, she looked like a lone, helpless crow. She began to rock to and fro.
“Oh, Khomeini. Oh, Khomeini . . .” she mumbled, asif the leader were still alive, as if she had known him well enough to dispense with titles.
“Oh, Khomeini . . . Oh, Khomeini . . .” she repeated, in a tone of concession to a longtime enemy. “Oh, Khomeini . . . Oh, Khomeini . . .” She rocked to and fro, to and fro. She unwrapped her arms and covered her face with her hands, then lifted them to the sky, then clawed the loose earth. The crowd gasped. Their tears burst forth. Several relatives rushed and whisked Sara away. Shohreh repeated her movements and lamented. Face, sky, earth. Face, sky, earth, over and over, in her own mad choreography.
Reporters squeezed to the front. A recent journalism graduate on his very first assignment—Norbert Siegmund—was mesmerized by the widow. All he had ever seen at a funeral were mourners who never lost control or surrendered decorum. But this dazed, slender woman, at war with the earth and sky, moved him immensely. Overcome, he stopped the tape and packed his microphone away to honor the moment.
Hands and knees in the dirt, Shohreh began again. After all, she was the hostess and had to serve her guests, even if all she had to serve was grief. Through a curtain of tears came her monologue. It was a medley of fragments, some mumbled to herself in Persian, others shouted in tortured German for the spectators’ sake.
“I know who did this . . . Oh, Khomeini. I know you did this. Oh, Khomeini . . . We’ll not always be your prey. We’ll avenge ourselves. Oh, Khomeini. I swear on your grave, Noori, we’ll take your revenge.”
Pointing to the pictures of the four dead, she howled, “Their blood will be a beginning. I know it will.”
Then, turning on the crowd, she growled, “Why are you all silent? We can’t be silent. You know we can’t.”
Mehdi’s eyes were shut, his face tilted skyward. Parviz had placed the picture frame at his foot and turned his back, his shoulders heaving.
She carried on. “In exile . . . In exile, I’m burying him. In exile, where he never wanted to be. I know who killed them. And they can never pay the price of his blood. His life wasn’t for sale. They can never appease their way out of what’s coming to them, out of what I, we , will do to get them justice. There won’t be a deal. I’ll be here to remember and to shout the truth until kingdom come: I know who killed them. Khomeini, that’s who! Khomeini killed them.”
Parviz could not bear to watch her any longer. He feared that strangers hearing her imperfect speech might think less of her or their tragedy. They were grief-stricken not mad, transplanted not rootless. He stepped behind her, slipped his hands under her arms, and lifted her. In his grip, she hung like a marionette, at last hushed.
The mourners walked up to the pit and each dusted the coffin with a fistful of soil. Parviz could not watch them. He turned to Mehdi, grabbed him, and began a loud, unabashed cry. Mehdi, wrapping his arms around Parviz, wept in return. While they embraced, each man wondered if the other was the insider who had betrayed them.
• • •
After the burial, the young journalist lingered. He could not leave. Norbert Siegmund did not know anyone in the crowd, nor did he understand any Persian. But what he had witnessed hardly needed translation. He approached Parviz, whom he recognized from his television
Arise, ye wretched of the earth, arise, ye prisoners of starvation . . .
When the song ended, six large men in dark suits lowered the mahogany box into the pit. Stepping to the edge, Shohreh looked down. The freshly dug hole was the raw, unsightly truth the eulogies had left out. In it, she saw the shape of her days ahead. Her stoicism vanished. The gypsy within overcame her. She squatted at the edge. In her black skirt suit, her arms wrapped around her shins, she looked like a lone, helpless crow. She began to rock to and fro.
“Oh, Khomeini. Oh, Khomeini . . .” she mumbled, asif the leader were still alive, as if she had known him well enough to dispense with titles.
“Oh, Khomeini . . . Oh, Khomeini . . .” she repeated, in a tone of concession to a longtime enemy. “Oh, Khomeini . . . Oh, Khomeini . . .” She rocked to and fro, to and fro. She unwrapped her arms and covered her face with her hands, then lifted them to the sky, then clawed the loose earth. The crowd gasped. Their tears burst forth. Several relatives rushed and whisked Sara away. Shohreh repeated her movements and lamented. Face, sky, earth. Face, sky, earth, over and over, in her own mad choreography.
Reporters squeezed to the front. A recent journalism graduate on his very first assignment—Norbert Siegmund—was mesmerized by the widow. All he had ever seen at a funeral were mourners who never lost control or surrendered decorum. But this dazed, slender woman, at war with the earth and sky, moved him immensely. Overcome, he stopped the tape and packed his microphone away to honor the moment.
Hands and knees in the dirt, Shohreh began again. After all, she was the hostess and had to serve her guests, even if all she had to serve was grief. Through a curtain of tears came her monologue. It was a medley of fragments, some mumbled to herself in Persian, others shouted in tortured German for the spectators’ sake.
“I know who did this . . . Oh, Khomeini. I know you did this. Oh, Khomeini . . . We’ll not always be your prey. We’ll avenge ourselves. Oh, Khomeini. I swear on your grave, Noori, we’ll take your revenge.”
Pointing to the pictures of the four dead, she howled, “Their blood will be a beginning. I know it will.”
Then, turning on the crowd, she growled, “Why are you all silent? We can’t be silent. You know we can’t.”
Mehdi’s eyes were shut, his face tilted skyward. Parviz had placed the picture frame at his foot and turned his back, his shoulders heaving.
She carried on. “In exile . . . In exile, I’m burying him. In exile, where he never wanted to be. I know who killed them. And they can never pay the price of his blood. His life wasn’t for sale. They can never appease their way out of what’s coming to them, out of what I, we , will do to get them justice. There won’t be a deal. I’ll be here to remember and to shout the truth until kingdom come: I know who killed them. Khomeini, that’s who! Khomeini killed them.”
Parviz could not bear to watch her any longer. He feared that strangers hearing her imperfect speech might think less of her or their tragedy. They were grief-stricken not mad, transplanted not rootless. He stepped behind her, slipped his hands under her arms, and lifted her. In his grip, she hung like a marionette, at last hushed.
The mourners walked up to the pit and each dusted the coffin with a fistful of soil. Parviz could not watch them. He turned to Mehdi, grabbed him, and began a loud, unabashed cry. Mehdi, wrapping his arms around Parviz, wept in return. While they embraced, each man wondered if the other was the insider who had betrayed them.
• • •
After the burial, the young journalist lingered. He could not leave. Norbert Siegmund did not know anyone in the crowd, nor did he understand any Persian. But what he had witnessed hardly needed translation. He approached Parviz, whom he recognized from his television
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