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Authors: Nahid Rachlin
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given any options. Freedom is just a trophy the Shah dangles before us.” Pari was wearing the bright red dress that Father had told her not to wear. I interlocked my arm with hers, wanting to protect her, as well as be protected by her.
When we got home, Mohtaram and Father and Manijeh were sitting on the terrace having tea and pastries. “I want to become an actress,” Pari announced.
“Stop that nonsense,” Father said sharply. “Didn’t I tell you an actress is no more than a whore?”
It soon became clear that Pari and I were in our own world within the household. Like her, I resisted the roles prescribed for us by our parents, our school, and the wider society. Manijeh’s dream was closer to what was expected of her. My brothers wanted to go to America to study and planned to return and put their education to use in their own country.
My former life with Maryam—once my obsession—became more and more remote as I grew closer to Pari and adopted her views and interests. Of Maryam’s religious devotion, Pari said, “It’s a way of coping with all that’s lacking in this life.”
It was true that it was almost a refrain with Maryam and others around her to say, “It’s the life beyond that matters.” How could they believe in God when he was so unjust? How could they trust that he would lead them to a better life beyond? Those thoughts that had come to me vaguely in the past were now suddenly solidified.
My brothers were leaving for universities in America in the summer of 1958, when I was twelve and Pari was sixteen. Cyrus had waited for Parviz to graduate so they could go together. They seemed to be on top of the world, with an air of determination and superiority. They spoke in confidential tones between themselves and had “conferences” in Father’s office. Sometimes they sat together and smoked Winston cigarettes, holding them with poised hands, puffing exaggeratedly.
“I had to pay for every bit of my education, working long hours and studying,” Father told my brothers at breakfast one morning. “You’re lucky to have a father who can support you.”
“We really appreciate all you have done for us, Father,” Parviz said.
“You’ve given us so much,” Cyrus said.
“We’ll return and put our education to use,” Parviz said.
Cyrus nodded in agreement.
“Of course that’s what I hope for you to do,” Father said. “Then you’ll marry nice Iranian girls your mother and I will find for you and you’ll give us wonderful grandchildren.”
“We hope so,” Parviz said.
They drifted to other subjects, mainly politics. Father’s voice grew fraught with tension. In the privacy of our home he criticized the Shah for giving SAVAK so much power. They could, at any time, declare someone guilty, arrest them, and even execute them for speaking against the Shah.
My brothers agreed that it was ridiculous that different parties and affiliations—leftist Tudeh, Constitutionalist, Regionalist, Nationalist—and many others were declared illegal at different times.
Father had resigned from his judgeship because it had become too risky, he said. SAVAK members tried to dictate decisions to him. He had also resigned from the textile company where he had been president for a while, because he didn’t like the working conditions, the poor health benefits, and the low salaries, and because he was unable to get enough support to improve the workers’ lot. As president, he complained, he was a figurehead. The boss, the person in charge of finances, was affiliated with the government and Father had to take orders from him.
It surprised me that Father was so compassionate in his public life, considering his sternness with us girls and with Mohtaram.
“The wheels of this country are turned by the Shah and his circle,” Parviz said. “Or Shah and America.”
“Parviz, are you careful when you give talks?” Father asked. Parviz often gave talks at his high school’s
When we got home, Mohtaram and Father and Manijeh were sitting on the terrace having tea and pastries. “I want to become an actress,” Pari announced.
“Stop that nonsense,” Father said sharply. “Didn’t I tell you an actress is no more than a whore?”
It soon became clear that Pari and I were in our own world within the household. Like her, I resisted the roles prescribed for us by our parents, our school, and the wider society. Manijeh’s dream was closer to what was expected of her. My brothers wanted to go to America to study and planned to return and put their education to use in their own country.
My former life with Maryam—once my obsession—became more and more remote as I grew closer to Pari and adopted her views and interests. Of Maryam’s religious devotion, Pari said, “It’s a way of coping with all that’s lacking in this life.”
It was true that it was almost a refrain with Maryam and others around her to say, “It’s the life beyond that matters.” How could they believe in God when he was so unjust? How could they trust that he would lead them to a better life beyond? Those thoughts that had come to me vaguely in the past were now suddenly solidified.
My brothers were leaving for universities in America in the summer of 1958, when I was twelve and Pari was sixteen. Cyrus had waited for Parviz to graduate so they could go together. They seemed to be on top of the world, with an air of determination and superiority. They spoke in confidential tones between themselves and had “conferences” in Father’s office. Sometimes they sat together and smoked Winston cigarettes, holding them with poised hands, puffing exaggeratedly.
“I had to pay for every bit of my education, working long hours and studying,” Father told my brothers at breakfast one morning. “You’re lucky to have a father who can support you.”
“We really appreciate all you have done for us, Father,” Parviz said.
“You’ve given us so much,” Cyrus said.
“We’ll return and put our education to use,” Parviz said.
Cyrus nodded in agreement.
“Of course that’s what I hope for you to do,” Father said. “Then you’ll marry nice Iranian girls your mother and I will find for you and you’ll give us wonderful grandchildren.”
“We hope so,” Parviz said.
They drifted to other subjects, mainly politics. Father’s voice grew fraught with tension. In the privacy of our home he criticized the Shah for giving SAVAK so much power. They could, at any time, declare someone guilty, arrest them, and even execute them for speaking against the Shah.
My brothers agreed that it was ridiculous that different parties and affiliations—leftist Tudeh, Constitutionalist, Regionalist, Nationalist—and many others were declared illegal at different times.
Father had resigned from his judgeship because it had become too risky, he said. SAVAK members tried to dictate decisions to him. He had also resigned from the textile company where he had been president for a while, because he didn’t like the working conditions, the poor health benefits, and the low salaries, and because he was unable to get enough support to improve the workers’ lot. As president, he complained, he was a figurehead. The boss, the person in charge of finances, was affiliated with the government and Father had to take orders from him.
It surprised me that Father was so compassionate in his public life, considering his sternness with us girls and with Mohtaram.
“The wheels of this country are turned by the Shah and his circle,” Parviz said. “Or Shah and America.”
“Parviz, are you careful when you give talks?” Father asked. Parviz often gave talks at his high school’s
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