are outside and the driver opens the car door for us. Whenever we go to Bahman’s parents’ house, Mr. F. comes to get us or sends their car for us. Dad doesn’t drive. He got discouraged when he failed the parking section of the driving test. He could have gone back and retaken the test but I think he didn’t want to face the possibility of failing again and bruising his ego. In Dad’s defense, driving tests in Iran are far more difficult than the ones in the States.
I climb into the car first and sit by the window, my favorite spot. Mom sits next to me, in the middle, and Dad gets in the car last. Mr. F. has one of those big American cars, a Cadillac I believe, which, unlike my uncle’s car, has a huge backseat in which I seem to drown. As soon as the driver closes the door behind Dad, Mr. F. pops his head up from the front seat, where he has been trying to hide, and attempts to surprise me. He does this every time, not realizing that I am on to him even if I am only six.
At their house, I have no one to play with. They have a daughter, Nazy, but she is several years older than me. Their younger son, Vafa, feels he is too old to play with me. So I sit next to the grownups on the big porch overlooking the beautiful garden and play with Lulu, the puppy on my skirt. It is a good thing I brought him along. Bahman is dressed in all black and, unlike me, seems to have lots of people to talk to. Dad and Mom ask him about his school. He is studying at University of Southern California. A while back, at one of the International Festivals, where one of Bahman’s films was playing I met a film instructor from San Francisco who remembered Bahman as his bright classmate.
This is my only memory of Bahman, though I have lots of memories of his parents, who were like family or perhaps even closer to me. I saw them at least once a week at our house or theirs. Mom consulted with Bahman's mom when it came to the decisions she needed to make on my behalf. Having raised a few kids, Mom trusted her friend with issues related to my upbringing.
“Do you want to go to the US to study?” Mom surprised me one day when I got back from school.
“What?” I thought I must have misheard her.
“Do you want to go to the U.S. to study there, I said,” she repeated.
“Why would I want to do that?” I am only thirteen, I thought.
“I hear it is a great place to study,” Mom said with excitement.
Like many Iranian parents, Bahman’s parents included, Mom was obsessed with education. She sent me to the best schools and registered me in extra curriculum classes. I had tutors, not because I needed them to catch up with my schoolwork but so that I could study advanced math and science. She wanted me to be the best, the best in everything, especially in my studies.
As a girl, I was even more encouraged to be highly educated “so you won’t have to depend on a man.” I heard that all through my childhood from grandma, my mom, and even my uncles – despite the fact that they were men themselves.
“Mrs. F. is sending her kids.” Mom meant the two youngest ones, Nazy and Vafa, since Bahman and the other boys were already in the U.S. “I wouldn’t be worried. You will be with them,” she added.
My mom, who complained if she didn’t see me for one day, wanted to send me to the United States, half a globe away, for the sake of having more scholastic opportunities.
"I can get into Tehran University, Mom."
Iran’s universities could not support the number of high school graduates who wanted a higher education. The ratio became even scarcer for great universities such as Tehran University, which admitted only a small percentage of students. Yet, I was sure I could get into Tehran University. I had been preparing myself all through my school years.
“They say it is a very good opportunity,” Mom said smiling, hoping for me to at least consider the idea.
"I’m not going to leave you. I would miss you too much."
“I would miss you too, but we are talking about your future.”
"Mom, I am not tanbal!” I was anything but an underachiever. I got on my soapbox again to remind her of my plans. “During the first year of school, I will study and work very hard so that my professors realize how good of an architect I can be. During the second year I will start working at one of my professor's architectural firms to get lots of experience - the most famous one, of course. After graduation, I will open my own firm. Oh, and I will also teach.”
“You can start a school, like Mrs. S.” Mom suggested with excitement. Mrs. S. had opened an elementary school in our neighborhood, something Mom would have loved to do.
“Oh, please Mom,” I rolled my eyes. “I am not interested in teaching elementary school. I am talking about university level.”
“Well, teaching is commendable, doesn’t matter what level, sweetie,”
“I will never leave Iran to get an education. That is what tanbal kids have to do. Besides, I love my country. I will not travel abroad, not even for pleasure, not until I have traveled and explored every city in my own country.”
“Honey, never say never! Life is full of surprises. I know that from experience,” she said. She dropped her head and stared at the not-so-fancy Persian carpet under her feet. The fancy ones she had left at my dad’s house.
Mom was right. Things didn’t go according to plans for either of us, nor did they for millions of Iranians like us, including the ones featured in the movie I am watching.
The war, a phenomenon I never could understand -- I expect the human race to be civilized enough to avoid wars, so my friends tell me that I live in la-la land -- was responsible for the first massive Persians exodus. That was about 1,400 years ago when the Persian Empire fell to the Arab invaders. Islam was one of the driving forces behind that war - that, and the conquest and the lure of the riches in Persia. Regardless of the reasons, the result was that a huge number of Persians had to flee their country to escape having to convert to the new religion, Islam in this case, and wished to remain Zoroastrian, the old religion in Persia, similar to Buddhism and among the first monotheistic religions, worshiping only one god.
It happened again, another exodus, in my own lifetime, when millions of Iranians left their motherland and took refuge in other parts of the world. First there was a revolution in 1979 and then a war in 1980. I wish we, the human race, would have evolved enough to do without wars by now. In reality our advanced technology has made wars even deadlier, and the fighting guilt-free since it is now possible to destroy a whole town with the push of a button and not even have to witness the destruction and human casualty left behind.
The Iran-Iraq war (1980 – 1988) resulted in over a million causalities. Many Iranians, especially the ones with young boys, left Iran for fear of losing their sons - boys were drafted at eighteen though many self-registered even before reaching eighteen in the hope of pushing the invading Iraqi army out of Iran’s borders. Iraq had foolishly assumed that Iran would fall quickly since the revolution had disfranchised the army. While the young people in Iran paid for the war with their precious lives, many young people who had left Iran and would be considered fortunate felt guilty. The adults, many of our parents, as the movie is reminding me, were handed a life sentence of being apart from their children - unusual in the Iranian culture where multi-generation homes were a norm during my childhood. In reality we all paid a heavy price for the war.
“Are you okay, Mom? We heard a bomb fell near the neighborhood!” I shout into the receiver, hoping for the connection to stay alive long enough for me to hear her reply.
The war had begun with Saddam Hussein attacking the neighboring provinces in the south of Iran. Then Saddam, frustrated by not achieving the quick win he had expected, decided to bomb Tehran, the capital of Iran – something he could not have done without the intelligence offered to him by the United States and other oil-hungry governments – Tehran is very far from the Iraqi border, close to 900 miles.
“We-ar-e o-k-e-y. Stu-dy, d-o-n’t come b-a-ck. St-ay there!” I hear Mom yelling over the bad connection.
Years later, after the war had ended I found out that in fact a bomb
had landed very close and broken a few windows in our house. Mom never delivered bad news to someone far away.
“I miss you, Mom. I am worried for you. I want to come home. Are you sure you are okay?”
For several years traveling out of Iran was near impossible. Even if someone was able to leave Iran, coming to the States was not an option. No visas, or very a few, were issued to Iranians by American Embassies around the world. No matter how much she desired, Mom was not able to come visit me. I could go to Iran myself but I was on a student visa and we, all Iranian students, were afraid that the United States might revoke our visas, even while we were here. I knew of someone, a senior in University, who could not come back after taking an architecture course in Italy, offered by his university. He ended up in Switzerland, where he had to repeat three years towards his degree since the Swiss didn’t accept his American education. If I left the States to go home being able to leave Iran would be near impossible but returning to the U.S. would be a miracle.
“I am fi-ne. Stay the-re. Do-n’t come. Stu-dy, d-o-n’t come b-a-ck. St-ay there,” Mom keeps shouting, wanting to make sure I heard her.
Everything happened in a flash, the kind you see in the movies when someone is about to have an accident and their entire life passes in front of their eyes.