ELEGY FOR THE LOST
TALES FROM IRAN
Translated from the French
by Alice Anugraham
ELEGY FOR THE LOST
Tales from Iran
Copyright © Michael Robinson, 2021
Publication: June 2023
Published in Canada by Bayeux Arts Digital - Traditional Publishing 2403, 510 6th Avenue, S.E. Calgary, Canada T2G 1L7
www.bayeux.com
Cover design by Parvin Dehghan
Book design by Lumina Datamatics
Cover photograph by Anonymous
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Elegy for the lost: tales from Iran / Sanaz Safari; translated from the French by Alice Anugraham.
Names: Safari, Sanaz, author. | Anugraham, Alice, translator.
Description: Les Go sa ns de la triste patrie
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20230578128 | Canadiana (ebook) 20230579221 | ISBN 9781778750113 (softcover) | ISBN 9781778750120 (Kindle)
Subjects: LCGFT: Short stories.
Classification: LCC PK6562.29.A33 E4413 2024 | DDC 891/.5534—dc23
The ongoing publishing activities of Bayeux Arts Digital - Traditional Publishing under its varied imprints are supported by the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Alberta, Alberta Multimedia Development Fund, and the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program.
Printed in Canada
Dedication
IN MEMORY OF THE BRAVE & THE FREE
I wanted to tell Alice that because of the recent events in Iran and with the new slogan for the revolution “Woman, life, freedom”, I intend to dedicate the English translation of my book “Les Goˉsaˉns de la triste patrie”, to the martyrs of the current uprising in Iran. In this context I think especially of Aida Rostami , a physician who, if they had let her live, she would be thirty-seven years old this year, like me. This book tells the many stories of brave men and women who have fought and lost their lives for freedom. These narratives are not fictitious, these are the stories of those men and women who should be remembered.
This morning, on May 19, 2023, three more of our protesters were hanged in the prison of Isfahan. Innocent as always, they were tried under false charges and under severe torture, they confessed to crimes they never committed before they were brutally killed. This regime feeds off the blood of its victims and seeks to take more lives every day in order to gain control and assert their authority.
I often wonder and ask myself: “How many of these teenagers and young people killed over these forty-four years of oppression, who were lovingly brought up and nurtured by their families
and friends, warmed by a kiss, by a loving touch, to be murdered in inhuman ways and unfeelingly deposited in the cold soil?”
And we, who are seemingly indifferent but who are nevertheless overcome by sorrow, loss, grief, depression and uncertainty…, we feel helpless under the repression and the fear that swirls around us. How long will we watch our friends surrender themselves to the predatory claws of these blood suckers?
How well we know that like leprosy, which gradually takes over the human body and deforms it completely, in the same manner- fear, pain, loneliness and anonymity will surely destroy the human body and soul, sooner or later! So, how long should we keep silent? This silence that steals away our very being, our souls and keeps us from our responsibilities and duties as sensitive human beings.
To my martyred friends: Your voices will always remain with us! Many of us have heard your cries and a few among us have responded in some form or the other. The others have passed by and remained silent. However, I don’t blame them, I don’t accuse them for their silence as I can understand the power of fear! But for me, the burden of this pain weighs heavily on me, especially when I remember your last words: “Don’t let them kill us, we need your help.”
I hope that the anger and hatred which has been spread by this killing machine and which has spread over these many, many years will come to an end soon! All we need is to keep our righteous anger so that we never forget and we never forgive. The more we hold on to this anger, the more we will overcome our fears; it is because we are indebted to all those who lost their lives, their eyes, their properties and their families on the hard road to freedom.
I dedicate this book to the memory of Saleh Mirhashemi, Majid Kazemi, Saeid Yaghoubi and so many others, and let me not forget the numerous missing people; their names are many and then there are so many unknown martyrs. It is impossible to name each one of them, as it is beyond the scope of this book to mention every act of sacrifice and each name.
Sanaz Safari October, 2023
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.
Maya Angelou, from ‘The Caged Bird’
Hunchbacks Like Me
For Mohsen Shekari and the Afkari brothers. Among the many people who lost their lives in the 2022 freedom movement, Mohsen Shekari was the first person to be executed. He was killed only after 75 days of detention and without a fair trial. Mohsen was only 22 years old, a simple innocent barista.
Thealarm clock in Mr. Hunchback’s bedroom struck six in the morning; however, since the use of the word “Why” in all its possible and not-so-possible forms had been forbidden in the language, and in all its variations, time had lost its meaning for him.
Seated on the bed, Mr. Hunchback looked around his apartment. A square medium-sized room on the sixth floor of a partially run-down building, which served both as the bedroom and as the living room, with a small bathroom and kitchen, that could accommodate only one person. All his life Mr. Hunchback had tried to live the way he wanted to, free from anything superfluous;
2 Elegy for the Lost
he always looked for a simple life without any worries. Except for a bed, a small table with two chairs, a couch, a canvas to paint along with its easel and a few brushes, there was nothing of importance in his room.
The porcelain vase on the table, adorned with Persian miniatures, disappeared day by day under the weight of the dust. He no longer put any sunflowers nor any narcissus of Shiraz in it. In any case, if the disastrous day had never come, Mr. Hunchback would have continued with his daily life as an ordinary person.
Before he lost his job, Mr . Hunchback was a lamplighter. He was responsible for lighting the public roads in six districts of the city of Apollo . Since the old mayor did not wish to modernize the lighting system, he had never replaced the warmth and mellow beauty of the colours that appeared in the light of the oil lanterns with gas lamps.
Every evening around six o’clock, Mr. Hunchback began lighting the lamps. One day while standing under one of these lanterns, he met a strange man for the first time, who would later become his dearest friend.
“Christ who spoke of peace and humanity, who opposed repression and war and invited people to come together in unity, always wore a yellow robe. This man may have been unlucky during his lifetime, and he still felt a deep pain. Misunderstood
Hunchbacks Like Me 3 and abandoned by the people he loved dearly, he was condemned to loneliness and desperate wandering. But his robe, his yellow robe, was of an exceptional yellow colour, a rare yellow.”
Mr. Hunchback looked at this strange man who spoke passionately of Christ and who was dressed like the villagers who wore their best clothes to come into town. He was so surprised by what he saw that he was speechless. Who was this man so interested in the yellow colour of Christ’s robe and who looked more like the nineteenth-century villagers he had seen in the movies?
– My name is Vincent and I’m an artist! Under the light of these lanterns, I was able to find many of my favourite colours. You can’t imagine the yellow colour of the violets and... the reddish yellow of the women’s skirts when the lamps are shining. In any case, you are a lamplighter, aren’t you?
Mr. Hunchback, who until then had remained stunned, finally moved his lips and replied “yes” in a dry tone. Vincent’s hazel eyes sparkled.
– So, you are an artist, my friend! Come, I’ll buy you a drink!
And he followed him without uttering a word… That evening onwards, they met each other frequently under the lanterns. Mr. Hunchback
4 Elegy for the Lost
did the lighting work and Vincent tried to find the most moving colours according to his skill. They would then dine together and Vincent would mix the colours on the palette and sketch his first drawings.
While observing the people around, Mr. Hunchback had noticed that Vincent’s face and his absolutely old-fashioned clothes did not surprise them. No one looked at him as he walked down the street or when he spoke aloud of humanity’s anguish and the yellow colour of Christ’s robe. Perhaps no one saw his imaginary friend…
Of course, before the day of the disaster, Mr. Hunchback had no hump on his back. He was a charming, shapely man with a perfectly straight back. It all began the day the word “Why” was banned. Which day? What date? He no longer remembered the date, nor the day of the formation of the first hump on his bent back. In the dusty weather the countdown of lost days seemed pointless.
On that day, Mr. Hunchback woke up as usual at six o’clock in the morning. It was winter and it was still dark. He suddenly heard strange noises coming from outside: “Attention, attention! In the name of the splendid authority of the city of Apollo, from now onwards the word “Why” in all its linguistic forms is banned from the written and spoken language. His Majesty and the sole royal
Hunchbacks Like Me 5 power of Apollo, wants the people to participate in this campaign to silence the “Why”. For those who do not respect this divine order, the consequences will be terrible.”
The heralds did not mention what the consequences of insubordination would be. Watching the people through the window, Mr. Hunchback saw astonished faces that looked more like question marks.
“How is it possible? Can other interrogative words be substituted?” they wondered.
At first, this warning seemed like a senseless joke, but on the following day, when news of the mayor’s resignation was published in the daily papers, people realized that this crazy joke could actually be a warning.
Within a week, the “Why” had completely disappeared. All books were gathered to be checked. A large amount of paper pulp was made from old books and newspapers that included this word.
The day after “Why” was silenced, at six o’clock sharp, Mr. Hunchback sat down on the bed with his back deformed by a hump. It was indeed the result of his insubordination. Gas streetlights had been substituted by oil lamps, and as for Mr. Hunchback, his part of that substitution was a hump that had blossomed right in the middle of his back because he had just asked himself: “Why?” So, lamplighters were no longer required...
Elegy for the Lost
From that day onwards, anyone who uttered the word “Why” felt an uncontrollable itch on the back, and the sprouting of a hump. The size of the hump depended on the intensity and the ardour with which the word “Why” was uttered; but the story did not end here. Dedicated agents fully trained to identify hunchbacks were employed. Anyone who was discovered as a hunchback was hanged from the gas lamps. The punishment for a hunchback anywhere was execution and death. Many women and men were hanged as soon as the last “y” of the word “Why” had barely left their lips. Hunchbacked convicts were made to wear a solid yellow coloured robe before they were executed.
Although Mr. Hunchback had been able to escape the piercing gaze of the vigilantes by taking refuge in his apartment, he was one of the most unfortunate victims of this misfortune. The only thing that connected him to the outside world was the window of his room. During this period, he felt a deep sense of bewilderment that he had totally forgotten his friend, Vincent.
Because of his mountainous back, Mr. Hunchback could not sleep comfortably at night. He stared at the ceiling and breathed with great difficulty. On the one hand the fear of saying “Why”, and on the other hand, the weight of the hump, aggravated his worry and his grief.
Hunchbacks Like Me 7
He frequently asked himself what his sin was. He suddenly felt the blood rush to his head as he repeatedly reviewed the unanswered questions. The veins in his head were beginning to swell without exploding. It was a kind of continuous swelling, accompanied by pain and intense heat that seemed to surge from his eyes. His veins did not rupture but were swelling without bleeding. The hump on his back was like a big snake that was coiling around him and at each moment seemed to constrict its coils for an indefinite period of time. The continuous feeling of suffocation never left him in peace. In his apartment he was the prisoner of a hump that distinguished him from the others…
Vincent returned, but it seemed as if he was no longer the same Vincent. His hair had turned pale and his luminous hazel eyes had lost their sparkle. He brought along with him an unfinished canvas on an easel and some brushes. Mr. Hunchback looked into his friend’s hollow eyes and asked him where he had been all these days and if he was feeling well. Vincent said nothing. He had indeed become a shadow of his former self and Mr. Hunchback could no longer feel his presence. He only stared mindlessly at the ceiling. Vincent no longer talked about the portrait of the Italian woman nor the bitter yellow colour of Christ’s robe, nor of anything else…
8 Elegy for the Lost
My name is Mr. Hunchback. Since a long time, I have been a prisoner in my apartment. Vincent is still silent. He left the portrait of the Italian woman unfinished, without colouring her scarf. Every day I can see the vigilantes through the window, checking every neighbourhood and house in the city with sophisticated telescopes. I’ve just realized that I mustn’t imagine the word “Why” even in my head. The last time I tried it, I saw another hump forming. So, I decided to block my thoughts. Today two more people were hanged from the lamp post near my apartment. One was the prostitute who lived on Sixth Street. I had known her, she used to bring me bread and vegetables, and the other was the opera singer. I can no longer tolerate these walls. I feel the walls closing in on me every day to crush me. I am an ordinary person. All my life I have only wanted to eat a sandwich under the Statue of Liberty when I would retire. I have always wanted to take pictures on Abbey Road where The Beatles had walked by on a day in spring. “Why?”, “Why?”, “Why?”. I see myself swelling up like a balloon. The humps are spread out and invade my body. I think they have seen and identified me through the telescopes...
Hunchbacks Like Me 9
The guards push me with difficulty. I’ve become round and heavy now ... it’s hard to walk ... even move! However, I’m ready to explode! Vincent follows me. After a long silence he finally tells me: “I have found my favourite yellow.” I don’t know how, but that’s exactly what he said. The noose tightens steadily around my neck, like a snake eager to coil itself around its prey, like the walls closing around someone as if to crush him. There are many things I don’t know, but there is one thing that I know very well: “History is full of simple, innocent hunchbacks like me!”
The Bathtub Manufacturer...
For Yalda Aghafazli: a girl who remained loyal to herself until the last day of her short life and despite being beaten and tortured in prison, she was happy that the interrogator had written on her case: “The accused did not express remorse.” Yalda passed away a few days after her release. No one knows what they did to her in prison. She was nineteen years old.
Ona grey winter’s day, after the change in the political situation in the country, a group of mercenaries and thugs who had obtained the financial resources by exposing the opponents of the new regime, knocked on the door of Roshanak’s house, Roshanak – the lady who manufactured bathtubs. They forcefully entered her home as they had the permission of the Establishment of Social Justice. They wandered all around ruthlessly, in complete disregard and this poor lady certainly had no idea of what was going to be her fate. These men had a paper in their hands that contained the arrest warrant for Roshanak, as also for the seizure of her property and the order to destroy her workshop.
The Bathtub Manufacturer... 11
This woman who until an hour before, at three o’clock sharp, was drinking her afternoon coffee, and was passionately thinking of manufacturing the latest model of a silver bathtub. She had put together a few sketches and was deep in thought, staring at them while the scent of fragrant roses filled the air in the room. She wanted her new bathtub to be the most luxurious, the most distinguished and the most aesthetic, so that one could not resist looking at it. She imagined her bathtub filled with rose water or milk and everyone getting ready for a long, soothing bath…
As her late father had told her, their previous generations were also bathtub makers. Her grandfather could have become a rich man by making very good quality silver bathtubs for the rich, the politicians and the famous artists. The models of the bathtubs of this family were so exceptional that everyone wanted to install one in their bathroom. The bathtubs were made according to the tastes of the customers, according to each customer’s personality. They were made of pure silver, decorated with colourful designs that demonstrated the dexterity of the craftsmen.
The hoodlums’ astonished faces showed that this was the first time in their lives ever that they had seen such a beautiful house – so peaceful and so chic. They began to inspect everything, trampling on the Persian carpets with their dirty
12 Elegy for the Lost
military boots. Roshanak ordered the workshop closed and she sent her two workers home, promising to reopen the workshop the next day…
After two hours of inspecting the house and after leaving everything in complete disorder, the inspectors found nothing. In fact, there was nothing to find. They finally showed her the warrant for her arrest and informed her that they would have to imprison her until the day of her trial. Some of the officers took on the responsibility of appraising the house, the workshop and the bathtubs in order to sell these for the benefit of the poor.1
Roshanak who suddenly saw her existence and her whole life fading away, had become like a possessed being, paralyzed by fear. Her mouth was dry and she was unable to speak. The inspectors forced her to move forward as if they were pushing a statue. They seized her from under her arms and forced her into the car, then they took her to the police station…
The interrogation room was empty, there was only a recorder, two chairs and a table with a dim lamp hanging from the ceiling. They turned on the recorder as she entered the room. The chilling winter cold permeated the room through
1This was the slogan of the 1979 revolution in Iran. In effect, it was the revolution which ignored rights of the marginalized and the poor.
The Bathtub Manufacturer... 13
the slits of the windows and it stung her skin so much that it felt like she was sitting naked in that room. The guard had blindfolded her and she felt she was blind. She remained alone in the room for a few minutes until her interrogator arrived. During those few minutes she felt her whole body shaking on the chair, and her heart pounded so hard that it seemed it would burst out of her chest.
All her life she had tried to be an honourable citizen and to uphold the law. She had no idea what she was doing in a damp room that bore no resemblance to her own home. The interrogator entered the room with heavy steps. From the way he walked, it was obvious that he was wearing military boots and when he approached her, he deliberately stomped his feet on the ground, and with her blindfolded eyes, it heightened her fears. The air in the room was very heavy for an innocent person. Finally, with a lump in her throat and a trembling voice that her timidity could not conceal, Roshanak dared to speak:
– May I know why I’m here?
As the interrogator was waiting for this very moment, he began to speak in a tone full of hatred, as if his prisoner was responsible for all the miseries and sufferings of his life before he became a loyal servant of the new regime.
Elegy for the Lost
– We will be able to discuss everything here, what we have the most is time. Life does not ebb away in these cells. Welcome to Hell!
Her mouth fell open in amazement, but she dared not tell the man that she hadn’t understood a single word of his speech and would like to get some explanations. She thought she could be content with a few short sentences:
– I must return home. I have to open the workshop. The workers will return tomorrow.
The man burst out laughing and, as though he wanted to wake her up, he said:
– You will have to wait a long time for tomorrow to come...
He turned off the recorder and left the room. Two officers entered the room and took her to her cell.
In the cell, there was only a bed, a mattress and a reeking blanket. To use the toilet that was at the end of the corridor, she had to knock on the door at fixed times. After about ten minutes, the guard came to open her cell and accompanied her, swearing, to a very dirty toilet that one could tolerate only for a few minutes.
The day after her arrest, the interrogations began without any interruptions. The interrogation
The Bathtub Manufacturer... 15
offices were located in a large room, one next to the other, in close proximity. Sometimes you could hear the stern voices of the interrogators and the pleading voices of the prisoners.
Roshanak knew many of them. Well known people who had been sent to prison with the change of regime and their property had been confiscated. The new regime now saw itself as the proprietors of everything and promised to form a classless society based on religion. The wealth of the country and all its resources were in the hands of extremists who tolerated no opposition. The economic condition of the people was appalling. Religious superstition, dogmatism, hope in the false promises of the “Great Leader” of the new regime had blinded many people and even the intellectuals.
Among the prisoners there were people who were clients of Roshanak. Businessmen, politicians, artists, writers. Roshanak spent long hours in the interrogation room but she still didn’t know what she was doing there. Twelve hours of uninterrupted interrogation a day had made her an exhausted, thin and pale woman, for whom sleeping in silence, far from the voices of the interrogators in her head, had become a dream. She couldn’t sleep at night. The sound of the officers’ boots had kept her from sleeping. A continual fear had crept into the body and soul of the
16 Elegy for the Lost
prisoners, taking away the meaning of life. They had forgotten everything and no longer remembered how they lived before coming to the prison. Their past and future were determined by a zealous interrogator who forced them to believe false stories...
After sixty-two interrogations, she was ready to confess and accept whatever she was accused of.
“Here is the list of your crimes”, said the interrogator, with a sly smile.
– Not helping the poor and not sharing your own considerable wealth with them.
– Making silver bathtubs instead of ceramic ones, and wasting the country’s precious metal resources.
– Placing extremely confidential documents in the bathtubs and carrying them to the homes of the politicians of the previous regime.
– Collaborating with enemy countries under the pretext of exporting bathtubs.
As the interrogator elaborated on all these accusations, Roshanak was so surprised that she didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry upon hearing these ridiculous allegations. She couldn’t even understand what he was saying. She was so dazed, that she only repeated the sentences after him, so exhausted that she just wanted to free herself at any cost.
The Bathtub Manufacturer... 17
Her father and family had wanted to keep and develop this profession of manufacturing bathtubs. She wanted to pinch herself and wake up from this nightmare in her own home to the pleasant, heady smell of African coffee. She was sure that in this world there were many dangerous madmen who, in the name of ideology, took away the right to live from people who were worthy of respect. In the prison where she had been locked up, nothing existed except hatred and resentment…
– Do you accept your crimes?
– Yes.
– You must sign these papers. Your trial will take place next week. Thanks to your cooperation and because you finally admitted your guilt, you can go out for two hours a day in the prison yard to get some fresh air. You can also get out of your cell and visit other prisoners in Penitentiary 350. Have you understood everything?
– Yes.
Penitentiary 350, which was divided into two parts for women and for men, was full of political prisoners, lawyers, human rights activists and even animal rights activists, journalists, students... With the theory of oppressing the social classes and the claim for equal distribution of wealth among the people, many people had lost their jobs.
18 Elegy for the Lost
They were sent to prison and their properties were seized. The protesting workers awaited the day of their trial, during which they were condemned. University professors were made to retire, writers were forced into silence, and those who had the courage to speak out were secretly killed in their homes. The new regime was planning a war with the neighbouring country in order to silence the protests of the people. With this new war, people became more miserable and they didn’t have much time to protest.
All the while Roshanak was waiting for the day of her trial, which was supposed to be the following week! Two years had passed and “that next week” had never come! It was as if time stood still and nothing was more awful than the feeling of being ignored and forgotten.
A few prisoners had been sent to court and they had never returned.
“The government releases prisoners who sign the agreement for collaboration”, repeated the guards in the corridors that divided the two parts of the penitentiary, but as to what kind of collaboration, they said nothing. Whether it was a rumour or not, living with the hope of gaining freedom lessened the tragic monotony of the moments in a silent and dark prison.
So Roshanak waited another two years. In the meantime, there were many new prisoners. New
The Bathtub Manufacturer... 19
faces with confessions that had been obtained by force. The faces she knew four years ago had faded away now. The old ghosts hung around among the young ghosts. Four years without knowing what free people do outside of the prison. Roshanak had forgotten her reason for living, but sometimes she still sketched bathtubs on a sheet of paper. The only thing that remained with her was her art…
The war had started, and the regime needed the strength of human numbers in order to protect the borders. They granted parole to prisoners who agreed to defend the country as soldiers. If they remained alive until the end of the war, they could have definitive amnesty. So, many of them decided to take a gamble on their lives rather than stay in jail awaiting their day of trial.
After four years of waiting, the “next week” of the day of trial, arrived. The day for the hearing was the following Monday at nine o’clock in the morning. She was very excited as she could finally defend herself after all this time. She would have the chance to tell the judge that all her confessions had been obtained through coercion, and were not true.
Despite what she had imagined, the tribunal had no jury. The courthouse was a small, dark room that looked exactly like the interrogation room. The judge was seated behind a table.
20 Elegy for the Lost
– You have spent four years, three months and fourteen days here.
– Yes, that’s it! Four years waiting for the day of justice! Roshanak replied.
– On this sheet of paper your crimes are mentioned. You were charged with espionage, an unforgivable crime. Especially now that the country has entered into war.
– Yes Sir, but I did nothing. I am innocent.
– Yes, everyone says so! Replied the judge, very coldly.
– No, look Sir, before I came here, I worked in my studio. I had workers who lost their jobs. I lived simply, unaware of all these crimes that I had to confess under duress. I’m an artist, I also brought some drawings to show you!
– Okay Madam, you have spoken enough. These drawings cannot help you. You were a prisoner for four years and you used up the country’s budget! I sentence you to death! You may defend yourself.
– How can I defend myself when you do not listen to me? What is this court? Your verdict is biased! You took away four years of my life for no reason.
The Bathtub Manufacturer... 21
– Enough! You have no right to shout at me! Clearly you have nothing to say. Because the new regime is very democratic, you are given this chance to live freely for twenty-four hours and do what you want and enjoy the last day of your life without any financial limits like an ordinary citizen! Your twenty-four hours will begin tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow the guards will come to take you to your execution. End of session! Get this woman out! Who is the next?
Roshanak was shaking with anger and fear. She felt like an abandoned child who held some worthless drawings in her hand. Tears welled up in her eyes and her vision blurred. She wanted to scream with all her might and regain her lost life. But she remained painfully on her knees and when she wanted to leave the room, her head hit the wall and she fainted.
It was midnight when she opened her eyes and found herself on her bed in her cell. A small suitcase was near her with a piece of paper on which was written:
“Your twenty-four hours will start tomorrow morning. Try to take advantage of it.”
These words were followed by the signature and seal of the chief judge.
22 Elegy for the Lost
The following day, at eight o’clock, the guard woke her gently. Everything had changed, even the behaviour of the guards: “Wake up Madam. As soon as you get out of jail, your day will begin. Are you alright?”
Someone had asked her this question for the first time in four years. Her health had become important to someone at last, even seemingly so. She missed the old days badly, when she was a real lady and others treated her with respect and cordiality, as she deserved.
The female guard helped her up and accompanied her to the exit, but she still had a headache.
She felt a complete stranger outside the prison. The world had become weird and different from what it was four years ago. She felt scared and wished to return to the prison, but as soon as she remembered that she only had one day to live, she decided not to waste even a minute of it.
She was happy that the last day of her life was in spring, her favourite season. Quickly, she took a taxi and went straight to the hairdresser where she had been a loyal customer for many years.
Pooneh, the hairdresser, did not recognize Roshanak who had changed so much in these four years. She sat down in a chair, gazing intently at her pale face that looked ten years older. The lines on her forehead, near her lips and under her eyes had become deeper, her hair grey and in complete
The Bathtub Manufacturer... 23
disarray, her sad eyes reflected utter hopelessness. She wanted to cry out aloud but she had no time to waste crying. She placed some large bills in front of Pooneh.
– What would you want me to do Madam?
– I would like a good face mask as my face has become dry like the desert! Please wash and colour my hair with the best shampoos and creams, tweeze my eyebrows too, they are thick.
– With pleasure Madam. I will do my best.
Pooneh began her work. Roshanak closed her eyes and thought of the lost days while trying to forget four years of captivity. She enjoyed the softness of Pooneh’s cold hands on her warm cheeks. After two hours she was ready. Her hair clean and curled, her skin moist and fresh. The face massage and nail manicure were just being completed.
“Welcome to the world of the living!”, she said as she looked at herself in the mirror. She savoured the vanilla scent of her hair and headed for the door.
– I hope to see you again soon Madam. Roshanak looked at Pooneh with a sad smile.
– Farewell dear Pooneh…
She wanted to behave as if nothing had happened, as a day in her daily life as it was four years
24 Elegy for the Lost ago. She would have liked to stay all day in her old neighbourhood. The neighbourhood of her childhood whose alleys and people she knew very well. The people had all left now after the situation had changed. Some of them had immigrated abroad and others were in prison or were held prisoners in their own homes.
She found herself in front of the old neighbourhood café. The atmosphere of the café had changed a lot. It was more modern and the proprietor was a charming young man, completely different from the old, chubby gentleman she knew before.
– A tea with a walnut cake please!
– Do you want anything else Madam?
– No thanks. I haven’t been here for a long time. The old gentleman sold his café?
– No, he is my father and he has retired now. I work in his place.
The taste of saffron tea and its fragrant warmth was like a rebirth for her. She could feel the blood coursing through her veins. She consumed the tea and the cake with immense pleasure. She also had great satisfaction in paying for it.
– Tell your father that Mrs. Roshanak, the one who made bathtubs greeted you. I remember him, I was his old neighbour.
– Of course, Madam. Good day.
The Bathtub Manufacturer... 25
She quickly took a taxi and went to the big store where she always bought her clothes. Trying on colourful clothes after four years gave her a weird feeling. Perhaps no one else but she herself could understand the delight of such small things. She felt the intense joy of freedom and happiness of living outside the cage.
She entered the shop a little stressed. She did not have enough self-confidence after all this time in isolation. The saleswoman greeted her warmly and she calmed down. Although she had lost a lot of weight, her slim back and beautiful legs still looked fit and attractive.
A black dress for the evening and a red one for the day. White, low-heeled shoes and a leather handbag. The real Roshanak was ready. A talented and distinguished woman.
It was noon. Lunch was ready in a quiet restaurant. Fresh grilled fish with a special French sauce with vegetables on the side and of course, a light fruit juice to go with the fish.
The spring air felt extremely sweet that with each breath she became drunk with its sweetness and could not believe that the next day she would be deprived of the chance to fill her lungs with the fragrant air. The scent of orange blossoms in May accompanied her to her home. She was afraid to see her own home after such a long time. However, she knew that her home was waiting for her with
Elegy for the Lost
loving open arms. The home of three generations of her family ... her identity.
She arrived at her front door. Memories of lost days flashed before her. Her family, her parents, her friends and, the men she had loved. The house was still in a good state and its empty workshop had become a conscription office for the war. She had no idea where her bathtubs were. She knocked on the door and after a few seconds a bearded man with two children by his side opened the door.
– Can I help you?
– I am the owner of this house.
– Owner? I am the owner! The government gave me this house in gratitude for what I did for the regime.
She heaved a sigh. God alone knows how many people this man must have sold since that time. Thanks to the misery of others, he had become a rich and famous man.
Roshanak did not want to talk to him, so immediately she showed him the letter from the chief judge. Looking at the letter, the man said nothing more. He took the hands of his children, called his wife, and all four left the house.
– Give me the key to my car also!
The man handed over the key to her and left. She couldn’t stop crying as she entered her home.
The Bathtub Manufacturer... 27
Tears as big as large pearls streamed down her cheeks and neck. Her dear home was in the hands of strangers…
Fortunately, the man had not changed the décor of the house and it was also very clean. Just like it was four years ago! Roshanak looked around the rooms and found the photos of her family, hidden in a chest of drawers. She changed the sheets on the bed and put the photo frames on the small table next door in the bedroom and also on the piano in the hallway. Then, as was her habit, she telephoned the local florist and ordered three bouquets of red, yellow, and white roses. She then opened the windows in the room and let the fresh air into the house.
She stood in front of the mirror as she smiled and spoke to herself: “Welcome to your own life!” She took one of her pyjamas from the dresser where she had found the pictures, and barefoot, she started running around the house until she was out of breath. Like in the days of her childhood, she always ran very fast as if to see the end of the world. The end of the world would come the next day. She put the flowers in three vases, in different rooms of the house; soon it was time for afternoon coffee…
That day was the best day of God’s creation. The clear spring air awaited the rain. She closed her eyes for a few minutes as she lay on her bed, then
28 Elegy for the Lost
got up and went straight to the parking, towards her car. She loved to drive. It gave her the feeling of freedom. She drove two hours around the city, bought a book of poems, ate an ice cream and as soon as it started to rain and the street was no longer crowded, she took off her scarf and started walking in the cold rain, feeling the wind between her legs and in her hair, on her damp skin. After all that, she just wanted to return home.
As soon as she got there, she went straight to the bathroom and filled the bathtub with water, the tub her father had made for her and which she had used for years to wash herself. A bathtub where she felt like a queen and around which her father had sculpted solid silver roses. She wanted the hot water to caress her skin and give her peace and tranquillity. Then she washed her hair, neck, underarms and breasts very carefully. At that moment, she wished she could drown in her silver bathtub and be reborn from the water...
She put on her beautiful delicate black dress. Her clear skin was luminous while her large breasts nestled nonchalantly under her dress. She put on some makeup, set the table and waited for her guest.
The boy who used to work for her father had grown into a charming young man now. Neither of them asked about what they had been doing for the past few years or what had happened to them.
The Bathtub Manufacturer... 29
They talked and laughed as if there was no tomorrow. That day was the first and at the same time the last day of their lives. They loved each other tenderly without worrying about the future. After dinner, the bed and the bottle of wine were ready for ardent lovemaking…
She was so excited by the man’s kisses that she constantly drank and emptied glasses of wine so as not to lose even a moment of intoxication. Roshanak no longer felt the passage of time, nor the miseries of the life that she had faced for four years. She felt weightless, with orgasms which she didn’t know whether they were just in her head or were tangible. There was no longer any boundary between body and soul. She felt free! Tired, they lay down on the bed as sleep filled their eyes.
– If you want, I can stay here tonight with you. – No, I need to be alone, by myself.
The man said nothing more. He got up, gave her a last kiss and got dressed. He slowly closed the door without saying goodbye.
Roshanak also got up, cleared the table, washed the dishes as if she had things to do the next day, drank coffee and sketched a bathtub. She brushed her teeth and lay down on the bed listening to the gentle sound of the rain which was still falling. Tears were streaming from her eyes but she was very calm and lighthearted. No one but she herself
30 Elegy for the Lost
could understand the value of a day of life, living free, out of the cage. To be caged is the gradual death of a person who thinks freely and has delightful dreams. She fell asleep listening to some music.
The next morning, she had breakfast, put on her red dress and white shoes, and walked around the house. She touched the furniture and the walls as if she was in a sacred place. Then, most importantly, she touched her father’s bathtub. Hearing the voices of the officers in the room, she walked out of the bathroom, as she didn’t want the guards to enter it. For the last time, she looked at her white house. This house belonged to her and no one had the right to ignore that. Roshanak sat in the car between two officers and stared at her house turning her head, and this time she smiled. Her family watched her while standing on the doorstep of the front door and with them there was a little girl in a red dress wearing white shoes. The prison was not far away. Children were playing in the neighbourhood. Cats roamed the streets. The noise of military planes came from far away and Roshanak, the one who made bathtubs, had to choose between the gallows, the gas chamber or the...lethal injection...
One-Way Street
For: Nika Shakarami, Hadis Najafi, Sarina Esmailzadeh and Homa Darabi. Three young girls who only wished for human dignity, prosperity and a simple life. Nika and Sarina were only 16 years old and Hadis was 22 years old when they were beaten and killed by the security forces after the murder of Mahsa Amini by the Iranian morality police. Homa was a child psychologist who immolated herself against the mandatory hijab order in Tajrish Square, Tehran, 1994.
Ofcourse, at that time when my embryo was forming... What time was it? Was it night or day? I don’t know. What I knew very well was that, at that time there was neither God, nor reason, nor love. There was just a woman and a man in a remote place, oblivious of the world around them. The woman experienced with pleasure or was it with difficulty a strange relationship, and the man, by force of his instinct, something he could not control. I don’t know if I was the product of one person’s orgasm or of two people’s, but
32 Elegy for the Lost
for the woman whose life had doomed her to be my mother, childbirth was the easiest thing in the world…
I was the fourth child in a family of seven. The man who formed half of my being and who in everyday language is called “father”, still continued to produce children. The woman who was the other half of me, gave birth easily but after each delivery her waist shrank like a cloth after a wash! I said to myself: “Soon my mother will be gone.” I was waiting for my mother to disappear. The children who came after me were also smaller, so small that the last one was like a “knuckle”2. My mother was completely lost at the end, along with her baby, the day when she gave birth to the eighth child.
My father had to take my mother to the medical examiner, otherwise they would not have given us the permit for her burial. During her lifetime, my mother went only once to the doctor, and that was the day she died. The cause of death: “Multiple births.” Without any other explanation!
Until then, I was still living with my father not far from Tehran, in a hut that we called home. My fifteen-year-old older sister and I stayed home. There were three more little ones after us. We also had two older brothers who, along with my father,
2In Iran, this expression is used for children who are sick or fragile.
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usually left for Tehran very early in the morning to work as labourers. Every day, my father took his pick and shovel and along with my two brothers went to Tehran. In our house, if they were lucky, the children could finish primary school.
My father finally gave away my sister to one of our neighbours who lived in another hut. He just wanted to get rid of his daughters because they couldn’t work like the boys. I never knew the name of the son-in-law. He came to our house one day with a box of pastries and as soon as the children saw the pastries, they attacked them like the famished pack they were, and within five minutes the pastries were all gone. If they could, they would have eaten the box too!
The neighbour came with a box of pastries and took away my sister who was clad in a white chador. Since then, I rarely saw her. She got pregnant and, after some time, she got pregnant again with her second child. It was as if she was competing with our mother in giving birth.
In the hut where I lived, being fifteen years old had a special meaning. My brothers worked on the buildings which were under construction and most of the time they came home with broken backs and swollen feet. I sometimes wondered, “How could such frail backs as theirs support such a heavy load?” Hard work makes a man hard and cruel, like my father. In any case, life shows no mercy. It’s not something that belongs to everyone…
Like my sister, at the age of fifteen, I too became a man’s wife. He was almost forty years old and I didn’t know exactly what he did for a living. They brought a mullah to the house and by pronouncing the religious marriage verses, we gradually became wife and husband, so-to-say! This religious commitment had never been recorded anywhere. My father gave him my identity card and I left with him. My husband took an envelope out of his pocket and gave it to my father. From that day onwards, I never saw my family again… Tehran is a sometimes cheerful and mostly sad city, where the rich are very rich and the poor, very poor. We lived below the poverty line, in a secluded place where no one saw us, in a corner near the railroad. My husband’s first wife had just died and she had left her two children behind. Her eldest daughter was two years younger than me. Two months had passed and my husband had not yet touched me. I didn’t know anything about intimate relationships, I wasn’t sure my husband knew about that either. Everyone has their role and their place in a household and I was not there for the love of God nor for my husband’s pity. One night when everyone had gone to bed, the man who had bought me from my father with an envelope of bills woke me and took me to the only bedroom in the house. Frightened, I looked behind me. The big eyes of my husband’s eldest daughter
One-Way Street 35
shone in the darkness. Maybe her eyes wanted to tell me something, but her tongue was unable to express her thoughts…
There was a dirty mattress and blanket on which the smell of sweat and grease had congealed.
“Lie down on the mattress!” Finally, I heard his voice…
He hardly ever spoke to me, like my father. Dialogue had never played an important role in my life. We were dumb people, unable to speak to each other, but to ourselves all the time… I lay down without saying a word. He started to undress me. I was ashamed and wanted to run away. I was trying to hide my breasts and squeeze my legs together. I had already watched my mother depilate herself with a small blade. But the hairs on my body were intact and limp. I didn’t like being naked with body hair in front of his eyes.
For him these things were not important. His bad breath on my face and ears bothered me. His rough behaviour made me squeeze my legs even tighter. He put his hand over my mouth and thrust his member into me. Something was tearing me apart like someone was driving a nail inside me. It all happened in minutes for him, but not for me. When he finished, I saw a blood-soaked white liquid on the mattress. He was breathing heavily and, without saying a word, he dressed quickly and left the room. For a few days I had trouble walking because of the pain and irritation...
36 Elegy for the Lost
I had to tolerate his body and eventually got used to the smell, twice a week and gradually, the pain disappeared and I even enjoyed the thing that moved inside me, while it ended very quickly for him, it never ended for me, and I hated him for that. I needed more time...
– Push, breathe, push. Her pelvis is small, the delivery will be hard.
– My poor girl, you can’t even give birth easily. My mother smiled in a ridiculous manner.
I could no longer hear the midwife’s voice. I just saw my mother who, in my illusions, was round like a balloon. She was floating in the air.
– Push my daughter, see? It’s not that difficult! My mother laughed. I felt the cracking and breaking in my bones.
– There it is, the head, push more! Said the midwife, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.
The illusion I had of my mother dissipated and, in its place, the cries of a baby wafted through the air. My husband seemed very happy. I had given him a son, after two girls!
He was tender and fragile like a ‘knuckle’, my son, a little piece of me. I believe that I loved him and at the same time, I wanted to get rid of this dependent and weak creature whose refuge I could
One-Way Street 37
never be. How could he take refuge with someone like me who had no ties anywhere?
One summer day, I bathed my child, gently put him to sleep, took my identity card and secretly went out in my black chador. I had nothing more to do at my husband’s home...
As soon as I saw her, as I wandered desperately down the street, I couldn’t stop myself from swallowing the air that wafted around her. The fabric of her chador was slippery and soft, silk perhaps, who knows? She was a completely different woman from any woman I had ever seen in my life. I wondered: “Why was she so fragrant, and how was that possible?”
– How old are you, my daughter?
– Sixteen years Madam.
– Where do you live?
– Nowhere. I have no one Madam. I emphatically repeated the last sentence.
– Show me your identity card.
– There you are, Madam.
– Okay, you’re not married.
– No, no.
– Get in the car. You can come with me if you wish.
– Of course, I want to Madam, with pleasure, thank you very much. Do you have a private car also? Is he your driver?
– You talk too much my daughter.
38 Elegy for the Lost
No, to be honest, I hardly ever spoke. But she fascinated me and for the first time, I spoke voluntarily, not under duress. I was speaking to save my life. It is in this manner that Madam Moloude found me in the street, wandering and penniless.
Everything changed in the blink of an eye. The trees, the houses… the North of Tehran was a real paradise. The air was so pure that I loved to breathe it without ever stopping. I didn’t want to waste a moment, lest someone take it away from me.
Madam Moloude had a big old house with a large yard and lots of fruit trees. This house was a real palace. I looked at it speechlessly! I realized there was more to the world than my husband’s hut in the South of Tehran.
Madam Moloude had six daughters and I didn’t know if they were her own daughters or not, I just saw four of them and said hello to them.
– This girl is a real villager mother, repeated one of them.
– She is here to help me with my own affairs, so no more questions.
– Okay mom! You are the boss!
For three days Madam Moloude treated me like a guest, while her daughters made fun of me. Their behaviour didn’t matter to me. Thanks to Madam Moloude, I had new clothes, I could bathe with hot water in a clean bathroom. I could eat good
One-Way Street 39
quality rice, meat and fruits and sleep in a real bed. I became acquainted with different colours, smells and tastes.
– Wake up little girl. You have to listen to me.
I opened my eyes when I heard Madam Moloude’s voice and because I was very timid, I quickly sat up on the bed, trying to wake up.
– I think you’re a polite girl. It is not important to me where you come from, and your past does not interest me. Tell me, do you want to stay here?
– Yes Madam. Madam frowned.
– In any case, staying here has its conditions. You must be honest, faithful and know how to keep a secret. You have to know how to hold your tongue. Everyone has their own secrets in this house. If I see any lapse on your part, I’ll kick you out and you won’t get a second chance. I think I have made myself pretty clear. Have you understood?
– Yes Madam. I promise to follow all your rules. I will do everything, the cooking, the dishes, I will clean the house.
– Okay, but you will have more important assignments. You can also have a monthly sum of money.
I could have my own money! She had given me the world! Madam Moloude had penetrating eyes, that’s why no one could say to her: “No”. She was stern but not mean.
I never saw Madam Moloude receive men at her house. The only man who prepared the food and had permission to enter the yard was her driver. She watched over her daughters very well, their cleanliness, their beauty. She also took them to the gynaecologist and gave them medicine. She didn’t allow them to eat much and always insisted that men prefer women with slim waists and wellshaped hips. All the girls did not hold the same value for Madam Moloude. Among them were two girls who were her favourites. They had become the temporary wives of two elderly, very wealthy men.3
The clients of Madam Moloude’s daughters were not ordinary men. Most of them worked for the government. I frequently heard these words from the mouths of the girls. They competed among themselves to stay beautiful and healthy. The world on the one hand is full of young girls who would do everything to get a rich and old companion and on the other hand,
3Temporary marriage had a definite date of commencement and end of the marriage, generally extendable if mutually agreed upon and is permitted in Shi’ism.
One-Way Street 41
there are many choices for men who have these characteristics!
– I believe you are ready now my daughter. You have to deliver this package tonight. You leave with my driver. He knows the address of the house where you have to go.
– Who should I deliver it to?
– Anyone who opens the door. They will know what it is.
– Yes Madam.
– This is your first job. If you can please me, I’ll give you money. Understand well that all of this takes place just between me, you and the driver.
– Yes Madam, I will do my best.
Since that day, I became Madam Moloude’s “cupbearer”4 and someone who kept her secrets... At that time, I frequented the wealthy neighbourhoods of Tehran. I had almost forgotten my previous life. I looked at it as if it was a nightmare that never really happened. The real me was taking shape, although it could take time to get what was needed. I wanted to be like Madam Moloude and have my own organization!
4 In Iran, the common term used for those who distribute alcohol and drugs to young people is “cupbearers”. This word is taken from classical Persian literature.
42 Elegy for the Lost
“Get in the car. We have business to do.” Madam Moloude told me one day, and that way I returned to my previous life, to the most unfortunate corner of the world that I had fled four years ago. Did she want to leave me alone there? Maybe she didn’t need me anymore. After four years of good and loyal service, she had no right to treat me like that!
The car stopped and a torrent of small children and women who had tied their chadors around their waists appeared in front of the slum. This neighbourhood outside Tehran was even more despicable than the one where I had once lived.
“Hurry up girl! We don’t have all day.” While uttering this, Madam Moloude entered a house with a small rusty door which was wide open. I followed her. My throat was dry with fear. In the house there were a few children. The eldest was perhaps fourteen. The master knew Madam Moloude well.
– I hope you are doing well Madam.
– Show me the smallest child.
– A six-month-old boy. Can that help?
– Not bad. How much do you give his family to rent this child?
– It depends on the age. For this little one, a million rials a day. I have already taken my percentage.
Without haggling with him, Madam paid the money for a week, put the child in my arms and
One-Way Street 43
said: “This child will be your new assistant. Your work will be easier with a child. The police are less suspicious of mothers!” She smiled bitterly.
I was thinking of my son all the way home. Where was he? What was he doing? I didn’t even know if he was alive.
The child’s empty, hollow eyes stared at me without any feeling when I bathed him. No one was innocent, not even this child! But those who have sinned less carry a heavier burden! We were unable to talk to each other and that was perhaps our biggest sin…
“Show me your package.” A male voice said behind me. I was waiting for someone to open the door to a house that resembled a garden. Madam Moloude’s driver quickly distanced himself from me without even giving me a last look. He left me alone with the policeman who had hidden himself in the alley. I never saw Madam Moloude nor her organization again. Nobody stopped her. The wellknown men around her supported her. In any case, she no longer needed me…
The sound of the TV filled the air:
– What would you like me to prepare for dinner, my little ones?
– Mama, I would like deep-fried fish with salad for dinner.
– Mama, could you make us fries with chicken?
And, as always, it’s mama who prepares everything with a beautiful artificial smile drawn on her carefree face. A few minutes later, the father enters with a bouquet of flowers. The father, the protector of the family and voilà, the scenario ends like this! The whole family is at the table with a clownish smile that never goes away. At the end, the red brand of the oil “Ladan” flashes on the TV screen. The secret of having a healthy family, a happy family. Ladan oil, without cholesterol. The best choice for your kitchen. What foolishness! Family! What a strange word. A prisoner shouts at the end of the corridor: “Turn off the damn television. These ads are making me sick! I’m going to puke seeing this bullshit!”
The sweet, flirtatious voice of the little girl in the ad fills my ears. I try not to pay attention. I lie on the bed counting the days of my imprisonment. One year, two months and six days. What are my crimes? If I can call them “crimes”, I am the “cupbearer” for narcotics. Everything that is most fashionable and of course the taste of young people is very important for us!
“Opium is used by old people to ease their pains. You have to live with the times!” Madam Moloude always said, but when she asked me, I would also deliver quality opium to customers, good opium from Afghanistan.
I’m happy to be in jail. The taste of the meals is not like the chicken fried in oil in the advertisement!
One-Way Street 45
But it’s not bad. Prison is not so terrible despite what free people believe! At least there is the shelter of a roof over the head and gradually the prison bars become companions. They are my best listeners.
There is a lot of noise in the cells today. The guard came to check. This time, two other women accompany him in black chadors. They search all the cells looking at the face of each prisoner. One of them approaches me and examines me from head to toe.
– What’s your name?
– Asiéh, Asiéh Azizi.
– How old are you?
– Twenty-two.
– What is your offence?
– I am innocent Madam.
She looks at me angrily and addresses the guard:
– What is her offence?
– She is a drug seller.
– Madam, I am only an insignificant and mediocre saleswoman who did odd jobs.
– You are married?
– No Madam and I am innocent, I swear to God. But of course, I have no complaints to make!
I’m happy here.
– You must be happy! For a vagabond, prison is paradise.
The women adjust their chadors and walk away.
46 Elegy for the Lost
One year, three months and fourteen days. Today the chador clad women came back again. They don’t search anymore this time. They have a list in hand and read a few names.
– Asiéh Azizi! Pick up your bag! Come, stand up here! (Shouts one of them.)
– But I didn’t do anything ma’am. Let me stay in this prison. Please.
I am forced to follow them along with a few other girls my age. They take us outside the prison and put a chador around our heads. After a few minutes I find myself in the office of the military police, before a man whom the women address as the Colonel . I want to shout, curse, but I say: “Sir, we did nothing. We were serving our sentence in prison. Could you tell us the reason for this move?”
If only they said a word! They enjoy tormenting us with their silence. Under duress, my head feels swollen and light. The Colonel breaks the silence at the end. The women surround him and he is the only one who speaks in a powerful tone:
“We know that you have committed many crimes. You are women who are destroying society. If I were the judge, I would sentence perverts like you to death!”
He tries to pronounce the words he likes in a louder tone. The Colonel looks at the women behind him with a smirk. One of my cellmates
One-Way Street 47
starts crying. They leave us in this terrible situation for a few minutes. My hands are shaking with fear. I thought of many punishments but not of execution. My vision blurs and every time I look at the faces of the man and of the two women, I see only one big eye in the middle of their foreheads. The rest of their faces have sunk into a deep darkness and just one eye stares at me from a dark black cluster.
“Shut up you whores! Anyway, you are very lucky. The Colonel has a proposal for you.” Shouts one of the guards.
The Colonel puts on the appearance of a person who is above all suspicion, an honest person, as if he wanted to grant us his pardon and that we are obligated to him.
“Immorality and corruption have pervaded society. Illicit relationships between young people are not acceptable. The only solution to save society from these horrors is to limit these liaisons. Women should not be allowed to appear in public without a proper hijab. We must fight against badly veiled women. Everything that leads to instability in society must be blocked. We have to look everywhere, in the streets, the alleys, the public gardens or even the private parties where people gather for any illicit reason, to dance, to celebrate or to have sex. Everything is forbidden. Relationships outside the boundaries of marriage and religion must be identified and controlled.”
Elegy for the Lost
We look at the Colonel with our mouths open. The women are silent. We have just understood that they were sent to the penitentiary by the centers for religious instruction. One of the women speaks:
“We would like to give you an honourable life. A chance to live, work and cleanse yourselves of the past. In exchange for a small house, meals and a little monthly board, we ask you to collaborate with us.”
The fear of my fellow inmates turned into satisfaction. It doesn’t seem difficult. With some policemen, we just have to block the way of people at the crossroads, the frequented passages, the public gardens. Girls and women are arrested and forced to hide their hair, and to cover their heads with the hijab. Women and men who are not in a relationship aren’t allowed to get in contact with each other outside of religious ties and, in the end, those who do not respect the rules are arrested and beaten if necessary. They never give this chance to every prisoner. I am definitely someone special. Our work begins the next day… They give us a grey uniform with a headscarf and a black chador. Our names are sewn on a small patch of coloured fabric on the pocket of the uniform. I look at it sardonically. Does it really show my identity? I, a person who does not know herself…
One-Way Street 49
It’s interesting to chase people in the streets. In any case, I master this task. For four years, I had to look for clients for Madam Moloude in order to be able to earn some money. Adjusting my hair under the chador, I see a few young women who, according to me, don’t have a proper hijab. With their short and tight-fitting coats, their makeup and their white scarves, they are certainly elements that are corrupting society. I have to stop them.
– Get into the car ladies. We have to take you to the office of the Morality Police. You have committed the act of immorality. With this light hijab you are wearing, you are disturbing public order.
– Madam Azizi, please forgive us. We are respectable women. Please, have mercy on us, we promise not to do this again. We will take care of our appearance. The Morality Police? Never! What dishonour!
Like gazelles caught in the hunter’s trap, they struggle to free themselves. They make me believe that power is in my hands and everything depends on me. It’s a pleasant feeling. I look at them with pride, enjoying their pleadings. For once in my life, people are begging me. They need my pity, my forgiveness. With insatiable pleasure, I search their handbags. Some have precious objects, perfumes,
50 Elegy for the Lost
French beauty creams in coloured tubes, antiwrinkle scented creams with essences of sesame oil and marigold, so that they could look younger with more supple and clearer skin. A woman’s skin breathes better under creams! Thus, they become more beautiful, more attractive and men compliment them on their beauty, on their looks.
“What beautiful skin you have Madam Azizi. Madam Asiéh Azizi, your face shines in this black coat and chador!” All women love to be flattered!
The faces of the women whom I arrest turn white with fear. Some are afraid of their husbands, their fathers or their brothers. They are ready to do anything in order not to go to the police station. Their pleadings are amusing to me! But some others don’t cry or let us search their purses. They say that the way they wear clothes does not concern us. They like to fight. We try to stop them by beating them. They will also go to court. But to those who cry, we give another chance.
In the prison, the girls are forced to undress completely in front of the guards and to wear dirty uniforms. They try to hide their bodies with their hands. The parents are angry. They shout. They want us to free their children, but who cares? They must stay at least one night in a ten-by-ten square meter cell where twelve girls are kept. They need to beg us for even a small drop of water and suffer insults. Thus, they will learn their lesson and they
One-Way Street 51 will wear their hijabs properly. The next day they can go home. If they are not sent to court, they will pay a sum of money as a fine, sign some papers and leave.
Seeing us in the streets, the women adjust their headscarves, hide their hair, wipe off their lipstick and keep their distance from the men who accompany them. They erase everything they can. They deny and repeatedly deny everything, even themselves. Like me, I too deny myself. They are not guilty, we know that. They only want to be beautiful, but it doesn’t matter what they want, they disturb public order.
Who knows what is true or false? When I think of my past, I see nothing, and the future? Can a person without a past have a future? At least today, I have a duty to perform.
– What do you do for a living, Madam Azizi?
– I’m a caretaker. I save society from corruption. I’m certain of it now. Especially when their voices fill my ears:
“Okay Madam Azizi, you are in charge! I will hide everything, I will erase everything. Forgive me just this once.”
I am the one who decides if they stay free or not. I focus on my job day in and day out. Who knows? One day I could be the model of a pure and faithful woman who protects society! Maybe one day men
52 Elegy for the Lost
will surround me too. Handsome chic men who smell good! I could become a famous person!
“Get in the car Madam Azizi, look around carefully, Madam Azizi!” And in this manner, they repeat my name...
I start again tomorrow. You have to look everywhere. I walk alone and slowly. Autumn leaves rustle under my feet. A pedestrian walks by and looks at me hesitantly. She adjusts her scarf and hides her hair. It’s my turn now. I follow her and the autumn leaves no longer rustle under my feet...
Persian – My Lost Language
For: Baktash Abtin and all the writers who defended and continue to defend the freedom of the pen until the end of their lives.
Mr. Méhrdad Afifi, author of many short stories and two well-known novels which had reached the tenth edition, had returned to the scene of Persian literature after eight years of silence with a collection of short stories. He had spent those eight years abroad with his daughter and now he felt that his country needed him. Mr. Afifi believed that he had a responsibility and a mission to the people and he had to accomplish that once he got back to his motherland, his beautiful Iran. Moreover, the source of his genius had dried up as he did not have enough connection with Iran and he no longer had any contact with political and social events. The day this gentleman got off the plane and set foot on the soil of Iran, from that moment onwards, he promised himself that he would write on behalf of the people, until his last breath…
Mr. Afifi had finished typing the last line of his work and he did not know yet to whom he should dedicate his last book. He had almost no one in this world and he had dedicated the last novel “My Name is Nobody” to his daughter. Finally, he decided to dedicate his new work to his imaginary mistress who lived with him for years without deceiving or betraying him ever. She was always beside Mr. Afifi. They grew old together, they laughed together, they slept together and even argued. She was also a perfect cook!
Of course, Mr. Afifi could not write: “For my imaginary mistress, the woman whom I passionately adore.” His readers would no doubt say that he had lost his mind! So, he typed: “For the only real woman in my life, Katayoun.” And then, looking around at his apartment which was in the western part of Tehran, in a good neighbourhood, he tried to turn off the laptop before anyone could protest. But it was too late, because Anahita, the young girl from one of his short stories who was always watchful, put her hand on his shoulder:
“Well, dear Méhrdad, it’s clear. You love her more than you love us! In any case, she’s your mistress! Maybe one day I could take her place. Isn’t it? I can also cook for you and I’m better in bed and of course, younger. Younger and more beautiful…”
While saying this, she hid the side of her face with her long black hair. Mr. Afifi did not like to
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argue with this stubborn girl and he turned off his laptop without saying a word. Anahita suddenly disappeared and silence reigned. Katayoun appeared before Mr. Afifi in a dress with a lowcut neckline.
– Would you like to imagine me like this now?
As a thirty-year-old Katayoun! How light, and young I feel! My skin has become soft and the wrinkles on my face have disappeared! Oh, my dear Méhrdad, always imagine me like this!
Mr. Afifi smiled deeply … and Katayoun continued:
– Do you remember this low-cut neckline? I had worn it the night Tehran was bombarded … it was a long night.5
Mr. Afifi replied tenderly while stroking Katayoun’s hair …
– You were always beside me, my dear, when no one was there.
Katayoun threw herself into his arms with a special coquetry particular to a young woman of thirty, and began to drown him with her kisses. The kisses were light and sweet at first then became hot
5The Iran-Iraq war, which began a year after the 1979 Islamic revolution in Iran, lasted eight years, between September 1980 and August 1988.
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and passionate! Special kisses from Kathy. How different she was in bed, a real Aphrodite! The beautiful Babylonian prostitute in the harem of the Shahs of Persia. In everyday life she was Katayoun but in bed she turned into Kathy! For Méhrdad, Kathy was the only woman in the world.
The next day, he took the copy of his book and went to his publisher, with whom he had a deep friendship. Unlike the people of Tehran who were always in a hurry, Méhrdad walked slowly. Spring had arrived and the neighbourhood smelled good. Tehran was his hometown where he had spent all his youth with many a lost dream. Yet this city was strange to him. He no longer understood the new generation, but he still remembered the young people of the times gone by, who had white hair today, like himself.
Mr. Alizadéh’s publishing house where he had worked for forty years, appeared before him. Mr. Alizadéh was an intelligent and wise man. He had helped many writers for years and Mr. Afifi had a lot of respect for him.
As he arrived on the fourth floor, Mr. Afifi was breathing heavily. He was no longer young and had painful knees.
– Well, tell me Alizadéh, how can you climb four flights of stairs every day at seventy? Can’t you install an elevator in an old building like this? You have to move out!
– I’m surprised you say that to me Méhrdad! This office is my identity. Can I erase the life I’ve spent here and the days I’ve witnessed? I can’t bury everything.
Mr. Afifi gladly accepted the syrup made from fresh cherries that his friend offered him, and gave him a copy of his book. Mr. Alizadéh promised to send it to the cultural office in order to obtain permission for publishing after correcting. Méhrdad returned home. The intoxicating smell of saffron rice made his head spin. The terrace window was open and Katayoun was watering the geraniums. The soft voice of a singer wafted from a record player. Katayoun took his coat and gave him some cool mint water.
– Today you see Katayoun as a sixty-year-old, my love. My skin is no longer glowing like the luscious summer fruits. Why are you afraid to imagine me younger? You know I’m not leaving you. I have nowhere to go. – It’s because I’m jealous my dear. I don’t want to imagine you young. Youth is instability, flight. If you stay young forever, you will have the power of a soldier. You will be brave and rebellious and then you will leave. I can’t stop you from leaving me, I don’t want to be an obstacle in your life. Katayoun was silent. After thirty years, his love was unfolding. She smiled and went to set the table for lunch.
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A few weeks later, Mr. Alizadéh telephoned his friend and asked him to go to the cultural office in order to give some explanations regarding his novels, or else he would not be given permission to publish.
Mr. Afifi knew very well the problems arising from censorship and he was worried. He already had memories of being questioned about his novel, “My name is Nobody”. Now he felt that he did not have enough strength to face this useless battle, the consequences of which he knew well.
The next day, he reluctantly went to the cultural office. He felt weak having to haggle with anyone for permission to publish. Many artists, writers and filmmakers frequented the office to ask for permission to publish their work. Nothing had changed. Méhrdad was on the third floor, in front of the door with a blackboard, on which was written: “To obtain literary permission.”
Mr. Taban was the person responsible for approving the works of poets and writers. Méhrdad knew this sinister man who always wore a grey suit and peered at people over his glasses. He felt nauseous. Mr. Taban was arguing with a young poet, forcing him to delete a few pages from the copy of his book.
– Sir, why don’t you understand? This poem has moral issues!
– My Lost Language 59
– If I delete it, my work will lose its aesthetic elements!
– Aesthetic elements? You are making fun of me? Describing a woman so openly, are these aesthetic elements? If it was so, the works of the Marquis de Sade would have literary value!
The poet looked at Mr. Taban eyes wide with surprise. He couldn’t understand this comparison. Red with rage, he gathered his papers.
– Ok Mr. Taban, I’m certain you don’t know anything about literature!
Before he could react, the young man left the room.
– You will come again to my office for the authorization request. I will look forward to that day! Cried Mr. Taban.
Hesitantly, Mr. Afifi stood in the doorway and did not know what to do. But since his work was very valuable to him, he entered the room...
Mr. Taban knew this famous writer of the country very well. It was he who had signed the authorization to publish his last book, eight years ago, after making many changes of course. Mr. Afifi felt the first hammer blows to his head, however, he smiled at Mr. Taban.
– Mr. Afifi, what a nice surprise after eight years! You were not in Iran I believe!
Méhrdad was pleased with his warm tone.
– You know why I am here, Mr. Taban. – Yes! I know you are not here to visit me!
Mr. Taban replied flatteringly and asked for two teas.
– Dear Mr. Afifi, I’m surprised to see you here! I don’t want to criticize you at all, but you know the rules very well. Do not write against the law.
– Unfortunately, after so many years of work, I do not yet know what, according to you, is your style of writing. (He answered bitterly.) In any case, I will hear your opinion.
– First of all, let me congratulate you. Some stories are technically very good! Although I can’t relate to a few! People should read and judge, certainly not me! In the beginning, you used a lot of metaphors trying not to directly mention what society you are writing about! However, the reader would have understood what you intended to say! The tyrannical society in stories like: “Hunchbacks like me” and “The bathtub manufacturer”. How funny these names are! (He looked at Méhrdad over the top of his glasses.) You distort reality Mr. Afifi
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and provoke people in the name of literature! Why do you question the freedom of men and women so insolently? We live in a free country where everyone has the choice to live the way they want! What do you know about culture and everyday social interaction? Also, you support perverse women who present themselves as victims! You need to be sent to court for all these senseless assertions!
Mr. Afifi felt tired of Mr. Taban’s monologue. He only heard his own voice and this square room in this dark office was his royal seat.
– Okay, is it over?
– Finished? I wish I could say yes! In any case, Mr. Afifi, enough has been said. Correct your copy and contact me … have your tea.
– You have spoken enough Mr. Taban. I’ve said nothing! Thanks for the tea.
Méhrdad descended the stairs slowly. His skin was red and flushed. He had a bad headache and he was no longer determined to publish his novel. “How could some men be so crazy as to hide their heads in the sand in order to lead a more comfortable life?” He asked himself. “And on the other hand, they were silencing the voices of others at all costs. While life is frail and uncertain for everyone!”
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Katayoun opened the door with a worried look. She didn’t ask any questions. Everything was obvious from the expression on Méhrdad’s face. She left him alone. Mr. Afifi never knew where she went when he wanted to be alone. Tired, he went to bed very early and after a few hours opened his eyes when he felt the coldness of a hand on his forehead and saw Madam Hékmat, the wife of the former Minister of Culture. This woman’s hands were always cold, like herself, with her cold spirit and her impassive face. At the age of forty-eight, she had the beauty and youthfulness of a girl of twenty-five. Despite her character, Madam Hékmat always smelled of sweet French perfumes. Fragrant, pleasant smells of perfumes she had bought in Europe between the years 1974 and 1978. She lit a cigarette and reprimanded:
– Enough Méhrdad! We know very well how it went for you today.
She sat on a chair displaying her beautiful legs, bare under her skirt. Méhrdad got up wearily.
– Madam Hékmat, I'm sure you don't know the details.
– As usual, you have to delete a few pages. It’s not so painful for you, my dear.
– Not this time. It’s complicated. Where is Katayoun?
– In the drawing room. Everybody is there.
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He went into the drawing room and Madam Hékmat followed him. Katayoun was taking care of Mr. Hunchback. Everyone had gathered around him. He was coughing as usual and a few bloody cotton balls were lying next to him. Katayoun was trying to put the oxygen mask over his mouth so that he could breathe easier. Mr. Afifi looked at him sadly:
– Again, another attack?
– We can’t do anything. The lumps press against his lungs and obstruct the airways.
Anahita replied trying to hide one side of her face with her scarf.
– Méhrdad, we are dying to know! Tell us what happened at the cultural office. What parts of your book do you need to delete in order to publish us?
Said Madam Hékmat in confusion.
– Anyway, I have to delete all the characters. The problem, according to them, is the total content. You, Madam Hékmat, you cannot talk about art, literature, dance or anything else.
Méhrdad looked at everyone and smiled bitterly and said nothing more. Madam Hékmat was of course the first person who started to protest and Mr. Afifi was prepared for that!
– My husband was the Minister for Culture. The Minister for Culture Méhrdad, do you understand? How should I not talk about art? A woman like me who has travelled all her life, Paris, Milan, Istanbul… We even employed many teachers from these countries for the education of our girls so that they could learn to be independent, so that they know how to live, so that they could dance and be happy. At that time, I was an indispensable and respected woman!
She suddenly became silent and sat down on the sofa. The pride like that of a peacock’s, which was always visible on her face was gone. She seemed very fragile and sensitive. Others weren’t used to seeing her sad, like a mountain that was bent over.
– These stories are our identities (continued Anahita). These are the events in our lives. We cannot lie and hide ourselves or pretend to be someone else. We are like a broken, fragmented mirror with many contradictions. We always feel the pain, the confusion. We are exhausted. My life is reflected on my face. It’s like heaven in the distance with hell, right next to it.
She put her scarf aside and her black hair fell over her shoulders:
– My Lost Language 65
– I was hoping to express myself in your book. Alas!
– I wanted to talk about times gone by. Moments of joy and sadness. Without a past, people have no future!
Said Madam Hékmat in a resigned tone.
Anahita rubbed her sweaty hands together. She was nervous and couldn’t control herself. Tears ran down her cheeks, a few at first, and then more profuse. She could not breathe well and her body was shaking. Madam Hékmat and Roshanak intervened and tried to calm her. Madam Hékmat gathered together Anahita’s hair on top of her head and started massaging her shoulders. It was the first time that she didn’t resist and she let her face show completely.6
The one half of her face which was always hidden under her hair, was not like the other half. Anahita was undoubtedly a beautiful woman. A woman with a fresh and youthful face. The other half was dry, like the skin of lepers. The epidermis was completely destroyed and the new layer was wrinkled with a strange red colour that resembled raw meat. Her eye in the affected half of her face
6In 2014, a series of acid attacks on women allegedly wearing “immoral” clothing, sparked a wave of protests in Iran. L’Express.fr
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was almost blind with the eyelid drooping over it, and her discoloured eyebrow seemed to grimace at those who looked at her.
– It’s easy to remove the smile from the pretty faces of young girls and condemn them to pain, tears and despair.
Everyone was silent, watching Anahita. She suddenly lost control of herself, jumped on Asiéh, who was silent as always, and grabbed her by the hair.
– Everything that happened to me is your fault. You who collaborate with bastards!
Asiéh didn’t even say a word. She looked directly into Anahita’s eyes.
– That’s enough Anahita. She is not guilty. Said Roshanak, the one who manufactured bathtubs.
– So, tell me, who do you think is guilty? Everyone who is silent is guilty. We are all guilty. We, who easily forget the sufferings of others and at the same time, we do not know where this cancerous tumor came from, which is gradually tearing us apart. This tumor is the curse of innocent people who cried out against tyranny, empty handed, when we looked at them with
lips firmly closed, like puppets to save our own lives. (She sat down and continued in a calmer tone.) Not a day goes by when I don’t curse myself. If I hadn’t crossed that nefarious street that day, the unknown man hidden under a black helmet wouldn’t have destroyed my face with acid. The man who looked like no one. Did he, himself have a face? He didn’t even know me. He was just a servant who carried out the orders of his masters. I will repeat this sentence to myself until the day of the last judgment: “I was burned!”
Mr. Afifi stared desperately at the characters he had created. Everyone had made their decision. No one wanted to change their identity in order to be published in his book. He turned off his laptop and, in the blink of an eye, all the characters disappeared. He put away his work table, opened the windows and let the afternoon light into the house. Everyone had gone, except Katayoun who had remained docile and silent. Mr. Afifi looked at her and smiled. She was beautiful and young. Twenty years, perhaps, without any wrinkles on her face. Méhrdad sat next to her and stroked her chestnut hair. Then he filled the tub that Roshanak had made, with water and bathed his favourite woman. He washed the girl’s entire body. Her hair, neck, legs and breasts, with more attention.
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Katayoun was innocent and ready to face life. Mehrdad cooked dinner for her and afterwards he opened the apartment door looking at his one true love and companion of thirty years with sadness.
– You are free my dear. Go and experience new events. I have nothing more to give you. Now you have a life ahead. Live like a free woman!
Katayoun looked at him with concern. She wept bitterly.
– All my life, I was with you, in your head, in your imaginations, in your life. I am your feminine half. I know you better than you know yourself. You are the only person I have. Where can I go? I saw life through your eyes Méhrdad! It’s too late to leave!
Mr. Afifi said nothing. He was very confused and discouraged. He felt like a loser who had lost his life in the blink of an eye. He lay down on the bed and quickly went to sleep... Daylight had covered the red flowers on the carpet and Katayoun was gone. The door was still half open and Méhrdad had lost his woman. While making tea, he picked up the phone and after a few rings, he heard his daughter’s voice.
– Hello? Papa? Is it you? Everything’s fine? Were you able to finally publish your book?
Mr. Afifi smiled:
– Writing in Persian has become very difficult for me. This sweet and dear language, which has been the companion of many writers for centuries, seems foreign to me now. I don’t want to change my words my daughter, so that I can be published. I’m tired. This dear language imprisoned me between the unpublished pages of my book. I am leaving everything behind... everything in this sad homeland.
A week later, Méhrdad was at the airport waiting for his flight. He felt empty without Katayoun. Where was she? He couldn’t imagine another man touching his woman.
He was thinking while waiting for his flight. He, who knew no other profession other than writing, what could he do? He could help his daughter clean the house or read the newspaper in the park while taking a nap!
Madam Simine
For the victims of Flight 752 Tehran-Kiev and the Iranians who never reached Canada
There was a time when Tehran was not this overcrowded a city, a time when it was calm, when the winters were still cold and the summers cool and beautiful. Tehran was full of old neighbourhoods and narrow unpaved alleys that were called “the alleys of estrangement and reconciliation”. In these narrow alleys two people could not pass by ignoring each other. When two neighbours fell out and accidentally passed by in these alleys on their way home, they had no choice but to greet each other. In this way, their anger dissipated. There were all classes of people, and the gap between the rich and the poor those days was not as wide as it is today. Old Tehran was not the city of contradictions as it is now, on the one hand that of the “Maseratis”, on the other, of child beggars left to fend for themselves.
Many years ago, in an old house in a historic district, lived a young woman. It was a large house with a yard surrounded by fruit trees. There were orange trees, fig trees, mulberry trees, vines, but also groves of jasmine and cloves, the scent of which filled the entire yard during spring and summer. In the middle of the yard, there was a blue tiled pond where a few goldfish lived among seaweeds.
The whole neighbourhood adored Madam Simine. Everyone confided in her, because she knew how to keep the secrets of the people of the neighbourhood like a treasure. Madam Simine was sweet and always smiling. She was an example for all other women. Men wanted to have a wife like her, religious, pure and faithful. She was a devoted and respectable mother who had raised her two daughters, all alone, after the death of her husband, away from prying eyes, under the protection of her brothers. No one had ever seen or heard of any wrongdoing on her part or that of her daughters. Madam Simine had become a model of perfect virtue and docility. She was also a good counsellor for all women. The young girls called her “Sister Simine”…
Family problems, marital disputes, sudden fancies, the coquetry of girls, everything had become the subject of free consultations with this modest lady...
Madam Simine 71
Elegy for the Lost
– My daughter has become nervous and sensitive since she started her periods. I really don’t know how I should behave with her?
Madam Simine looked in the mirror which revealed her from head to toe, she adjusted her flowered scarf, while tucking in a lock of her black hair.
– It is the beginning of puberty, my dear neighbour. Your daughter is no longer a child. You must teach her modesty. She must learn to hide herself away from the glance of men who are not related to her.
– But she’s only twelve years old!
– You must train her in a manner consistent with morality; yes, she is just twelve years old. Leave aside this maternal compassion! The first changes begin at this age…
Repeating this sentence, Madam Simine stared at the yard where her five-year-old daughter was singing to her doll, and combing her hair. On the other side of the yard, near the front door, she saw the neighbour’s daughter waiting for her mother’s consultation to end. Madam Simine watched the first signs of puberty on the happy face of this young girl. Her cheeks had become rosy ; she looked awkwardly towards Madam Simine’s room, the windows of which were wide open. She
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had a white floral chador over her head which was loosely tied. Madam Simine smiled when she saw all these childish simplicities.
She accompanied her neighbour to the door, looked at her daughter fleetingly, went back into the bedroom and sat down in front of her mirror. It was a large mirror that revealed every detail of her face and her height, in front of which she had placed an old chair made of plain wood. Madam Simine had a strange affection for her mirror. Every day, during the consultation sessions, she sat in front of this mirror, on her plain wooden chair and gave her advice without even glancing at the people who spoke to her. People who came to visit her under the most different pretexts only saw her profile: that of a woman in a flowered headscarf, dressed in a long dress. Only a lock of her hair escaped from her scarf. She spoke facing the mirror, so it appeared as though she was reading a text which was pasted on it.
– My husband, Madam Simine, does not pay enough attention to me, neither to me, nor to our children. He comes home late at night. He argues with his children. He breaks the dishes. People say he is having a secret affair with a woman. He has lost his mind. I feel alone and helpless.
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Saying these words, she burst into tears. Madam Simine did not turn her face away and she didn’t even cast a furtive glance at this fragile woman who was sitting in her room and crying bitterly. It had been a long time since she had reacted to this kind of outpouring. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she couldn’t sympathise with or pity others. She had become like a shadow that no longer felt anything, neither sorrow, nor joy, nor excitement.
She believed that nothing awaited her, that everything was predetermined. She believed that no one could fight against their destiny, that they had to accept it and live with it. Madam Simine called Sarah, her eldest daughter, who was almost seven years old and who had just lost her two front milk teeth the day before. Her toothless look made her mother laugh when she looked at her. The little girl came into the room with a notebook in her hand. As soon as she wanted to show her mother her exercise, Madam Simine asked her to bring a glass of water for the neighbour who was still wiping her tears with her black chador. Madam Simine watched her every move in the mirror. She knew all the words by heart and the tone of her voice was completely monotonous, without falling or rising, like a tape recorder reading a text without any feeling:
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– My dear, these arguments are normal in a family. Men want to be free. They don’t want to be watched by women. We all know that feeling of loneliness. I too have often been alone with my daughters. Before my husband died, I was alone, just like after his death. Be calm and docile; do not press your husband with questions. Try to accept your loneliness. If you avoid arguing with him, you will feel more secure and in harmony.
All her life, Madam Simine had put up with this bad situation. For her, disagreement was the worst fault. She had never left her husband alone, whether in moments of joy or sadness. After his death, she did what her brothers asked her to do. She had thus brought up her daughters, according to tradition. She was grateful to her brothers, who took responsibility for keeping her and her daughters safe.
War had begun a few years earlier and no one knew how long it would last. Madam Simine’s husband had been a martyr of the war. It was now her pride to be the wife of a perfect man who had defended his country with dignity and courage. Of course, most of the time she wished to have a husband who was alive, who could bravely defend his wife and children, but from her married life she was left with only a surname. She had
Elegy for the Lost
been married very early, when she was still a high school student. She was only sixteen at the time and would have liked to continue her studies if she had been left to choose freely. She had never complained in her life. She never had the right to complain. Her older brothers were probably wiser and more experienced and the decisions they made for her were the best. They knew what was good or bad, right or wrong for their sister. Moreover, the opinion of a sixteen-year-old child was never to be considered. A child who had been forcibly thrown from the world of childhood to that of adults without asking her opinion. They had shown her a way, saying: “Here, this is your path. Go ahead and don’t complain…”
Although her husband seemed wiser, because he was ten years older than his wife, he was a young and inexperienced man who had spent a good part of his life in an old locality before dying at the front. He had seen nothing. Until his last breath, he had never understood the meaning of life. When he felt the pain of the bullets piercing his body, he didn’t even ask himself: “Why!”
After his death, Madam Simine’s brothers watched over their sister and her two daughters. They had not gone directly to the front lines under the pretext of taking care of the family; on the other hand, they financially helped the victims and those evacuated from the war. When the Iranian carpet
Madam
Simine 77
market was still flourishing, they had loyal customers around the world and they had two large offices in the “bazaar” in the old locality. So, they had enough money to be able to support their family and that of their sister.
Madam Simine was twenty-seven and she already felt old. She no longer expected anything from life. Had she ever expected something? For her, life had always come down to a strict framework: that of tradition and religion, without any hint of protests. This was her cocoon. Madam Simine was a woman faithful to the law which dictated its teachings, in every situation. So, there was no question...
Every noon after shopping, dressed in her black chador, she picked up her daughter from the primary school. Seeing all these little girls running nonchalantly and innocently in the schoolyard, dressed in grey uniforms and veiled in white headscarves that hid their hair, she was happy, briefly, before sadness took over. Being a woman was not easy anywhere, even for these little girls, lost in their uniforms. Faces wet with sweat, running towards their parents trying to take off their headscarves to feel the cool wind caressing their hair.
As soon as Sarah saw her mother with the shopping basket, she happily ran towards her, hoping to find something delicious to eat on the way home. Madam Simine always brought ice cream
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or a little cake for her daughter. She never came empty-handed. For the daughter, her mother was the symbol of abundance...
In the event of a red alert, streets and schoolyards had been lined with sand-filled burlap sacks that served as barricades to shield people from the Iraqi bomber planes. For the children, these barricades had become a place to play hide and seek. They happily hid behind them and their cries echoed in the air. For the adults, on the other hand, the barricades were synonymous with the anxiety they felt at the possibility of bombardments.
Madam Simine envied her daughters when she saw them doing their school work or playing with their dolls without any qualms, as if nothing threatened their lives. These little girls might still have time to live in freedom and dream.
– Sister Simine, the idea of a marriage at the age of seventeen is a nightmare for me. I am too young, I cannot be forced to marry, by a simple and unilateral decision taken by my parents. I know nothing of married life. You are a wise woman, tell me what to do.
Madam Simine adjusted her scarf and glanced at the young girl’s pale face. She had very bright green eyes and beautiful black hair. She ran her tongue around in her mouth and wanted to say something, but remained silent. She saw the
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freshness of youth in the naive features of this child. She felt lost. The girl who sat opposite her could be her double. Distracted, Madam Simine suddenly looked into the mirror and muttered something which was barely comprehensible.
– I got married at sixteen, my dear. I knew nothing about marriage, just like you. One day, when I was coming home from school, my brothers said to me: “Enough of studying! You must get married.” With whom? I had no idea! They said to me: “You are going to marry this man!” and I responded enthusiastically: “Yes!” For me, marriage was a childish game, a game of a make-believe relationship. At first glance, I did not see any inconvenience in this marriage; my future husband had a charming appearance. I was just a child. At the age of twenty-two, I had given birth to two daughters. Such is life. You can’t fight your destiny. Your parents are wiser than you. Try to be a good woman, a good wife and a good mother.
Madam Simine looked the girl up and down with a kind of sympathy, although she was not in the habit of looking into the eyes of the women who came to consult her. She suddenly felt alone, strangely lonely. She threw her scarf on the floor beside her, and let her hair fall loose over her shoulders.
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Madam Simine felt alone as if she had no family, no faithful or intimate friend who could understand her. She only had silence as an ally. She felt as if she was imprisoned in a narrow, dark cell, in a room where her only companion was this mirror, placed in front of her. This mirror was her reflection, of her loneliness and her pain, also of her indifference. She listened to the footsteps of the girl in the courtyard, who descended the stairs, calmly, without any haste.
How she wished that time would stop. Oh, how much this girl resembled her! She portrayed her childhood, the beginning of her servitude. Many years would pass by for her to get used to her situation. But loneliness would never leave her in peace, she would always ask herself this question: “Who am I really and what am I doing here with these children and this husband whom I never wanted?”
Weeks passed following this consultation; as usual, Madam Simine continued with her role as a counsellor. She knew her duties well and performed them in accordance with what was expected of her…
One day, she got up very early, woke her daughters Sarah the eldest and Hana the youngest, prepared breakfast for them and dressed them.
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– Mama, I’m going to be late for school. Sarah repeated in a complaining tone.
– You’re not going to school today, my dear. We are going on a vacation, it will be a long trip!
She smiled seeing the surprise on the girls’ faces. The children’s surprise quickly turned to joy. Madam Simine was calm, but her face betrayed her inner anxiety. The children were ready. She put on her chador and for the last time looked at the house where she had grown up. Suddenly all her memories resurfaced, a feeling of nostalgia came over her. It was very difficult to bury the past, those memories that now seemed so very dear to her, in order to start all over again. But she had no choice, she had to travel light…
With money she had saved over the years, she set out with her daughters. She took the first taxi to the terminal. The noise that came over the loudspeakers perched on the street lamps spat out the voice of a man which made her ears ring. A bitter voice that spoke enthusiastically of the courage of the country’s soldiers at the frontlines. During the trip, Madam Simine looked at the faces of people which were clouded over with worry, fear and unbearable pain. Stunned faces that hadn’t seen the colour of peace in years. For them, this word was completely foreign. A word that only existed in their dreams.
Madam
To live like walking corpses had become a habit for people, for vagabonds, for whom the only excitement in life was fear. Madam Simine could not remember the last time she had felt the true feeling of peace. She didn’t want to look around wide eyed. She wanted to run away so she could breathe...
Meanwhile, a rumor suddenly spread through the neighbourhood: Madam Simine had disappeared with her two daughters. Her brothers looked for her everywhere, including in the nearby towns. They searched from top to bottom in all the houses of the people they knew. They were afraid and ashamed at the same time. The more persistent the rumors became, the more the brothers were shunned by the population.
Without any leads or ideas, the brothers ended up abandoning their search. They sold their stores and left the neighbourhood. No one knew where Madam Simine was, nor did they know the reasons for her disappearance. Opinions were divided. Some said she was having a secret affair with an army officer and that was what caused her flight. Others thought she had fled abroad with her daughters; but without money this was impossible. Anyway, the women of the neighbourhood now considered her as impure and a hypocrite.
Madam Simine was now free. For the first time, she felt free from the gaze and the judgment of
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others. This flight was for the sake of her daughters, so that they would not suffer the same fate she had suffered. The long mirror in her old house in Tehran was her only friend and confidant but it had lost its lustre over time. Time passed once again and the people of the neighbourhood forgot the existence of Madam Simine, her brothers and her daughters. It was as if the woman who had been the most admired, the most consulted and the most listened to in the neighbourhood, for so many years, had never existed. The women in the neighbourhood were looking for someone to take her place. They needed a puppet and at the same time a guide…
Twenty-five years had passed since the 1980s and Madam Simine’s flight with her daughters.
Mirza was an honest, simple and very kind man, with a thick beard and long white hair. People always respected him. Although he had not become rich during his lifetime, he was never eager to earn more. His life went on smoothly and he was always grateful for what he had. Mirza believed that God never left him alone, even during the worst of times. For twenty-five years he had lived with his wife and, although fate had given him no children, he had raised two daughters as if they were his own.
Mirza’s mother was a friend of Madam Simine’s mother. In fact, this woman was the only person
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she could confide in. After her flight, her brothers could not ever imagine that their sister had gone to Mirza’s home. They could never have thought of this possibility. They hadn’t seen each other for years and had never heard from each other either. For them, this family was considered as strangers.
On the day of her escape, Madam Simine bought a one-way ticket to Shiraz. It was the only city where she could feel safe. It was the first time in her life that she had left Tehran. Mirza then lived with his mother, and they warmly welcomed Simine and her daughters without asking them any questions.
Mirza and his mother lived in the old bourgeois district of Ghasr-o-Dasht . 7 At that time, Shiraz was full of gardens watered by underground springs. Mirza was the gardener in one of these gardens. A noble Shirazian family had employed him and he was given a house in the middle of the garden in which he lived with his mother and later, with Madam Simine, Sarah and Hana.
At first Madam Simine worked as a seamstress in the room Mirza had given her so that she could earn a living. She took orders from people and
7“Ghasr” in Persian means a castle and “Dasht” means situated in the countryside. Ghasr-o-Dasht is still one of the most beautiful and well-known neighbourhoods in Shiraz, but it has changed a lot.
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sewed on an old sewing machine. By the end of the war, with the money she had been able to save, she bought a small store to start her own business. Since Madam Simine was not Mirza’s legal wife according to religious laws, as soon as the war was over, Mirza’s mother insisted that they marry. It was a great sin as a young woman could not live in the same house with an unmarried young man. Moreover, according to Mirza’s mother, a young woman like Madam Simine, without a husband and with two children needed a man! She couldn’t live alone:
“You must get married again. Don’t forget my dear daughter, you must always be afraid of what people say. They will take the liberty of judging you without knowing you. People do not look favourably at widowed women who live alone.”
Thus, Mirza and Simine got married. Love of course was not an important element in their marriage. It was more of a habit, and not all habits are bad. Mirza and Madam Simine got along well. Mirza was completely different from Simine’s brothers and he always gave her more freedom. He was not an educated man but during his lifetime he had read many books, and his way of thinking was not restricted like those of Madam Simine’s brothers...
Madam
After some years, Madam Simine’s business was flourishing. She was able to hire seamstresses and work as a supervisor. Madam Simine was proud of herself. She had overcome many difficulties and had escaped the domination of her brothers. Now she was financially independent. Madam Simine was not a slave to the prejudices of others. She had raised her daughters in freedom, as she desired. She knew very well that women who had withdrawn themselves from the world were always condemned to weep bitter tears. For these women the sun never shone. Madam Simine did not want to withdraw herself from the world, she was no longer the prisoner locked up in a dungeon, all in the name of virtue...
Twenty-five years had passed and Madam Simine was now over fifty. The lines on her forehead, around her lips and eyes had become deeper and they were fully visible. Although she was now chubby and thus appeared smaller, she still walked with the confidence of a self-assured young woman. She laughed and said: “I’m older! I’m not young like before and I can’t do anything against aging!”
She still sewed, she was still Mirza’s wife, and she still lived on the street in Ghasr-o-Dasht. The elderly people in the neighbourhood did everything possible to make their street look like as it used to be. But it was only appearances, in fact
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there were no gardens left in Ghasr-o-Dasht and many old houses had been turned into luxury apartments. The owner of the house in which Mirza lived with his family was a doctor who had immigrated to the United States and who returned to Iran every summer for two months. The rest of the year, the house and its garden were completely at Mirza’s disposal.
Sarah, the eldest daughter of Madam Simine was educated and had been brought up according to her mother’s wishes. For Mirza and Simine, she was a calm and docile girl. After finishing her university studies, she started work in an office, and had married one of her colleagues. Madam Simine wished a happy life for her daughter as she sewed her wedding dress.
Sarah lived with her husband in the hope of having a child, but her main concern was to be able to pay the rent for her apartment as well as the electricity, water and gas bills. She aspired for a quiet life in which she could provide for basic needs. This ambition was not enough for Hana. Maybe she was a little too demanding? What could an ordinary person ask for in life? Everyone is looking for peace, financial stability, housing, travels and a good job … this is what everyone is after, even if despite strenuous efforts, many are deprived of these seemingly simple things!
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For everyone happiness was a precious possession, like the fruit of paradise. Happiness was sweet, but rare. Happiness was elusive like the Huma, the fabulous bird of Persian legends. We couldn’t possess it. The more we looked for it, the further the Huma got away from us. When it took off, the rare and majestic colours of its wings were visible from far away. Then suddenly … the sounds of the bomber planes and the scary sirens during the red alert, the worried eyes of Simine and the eighty million people staring at Sarah’s wedding dress. Sarah was running and her wedding dress was falling apart, tearing little by little. Yesterday it was war and famine, today it is the fear of war and famine...
Hana was alone, like her mother. When they were alone together, Madam Simine sat down in front of a mirror as in the days gone by and said:
– Women, these crazy creatures are the loneliest in the world! (And then she put on brown lipstick and smiled at her daughter.) You have to get used to it!
– Since some years I no longer suffer. I’ve got used to it, Hana replied.
Hana alternated between Tehran and Shiraz for years. She had studied at the University of Tehran and lived in Shiraz. Hana looked a lot like her mother. She was a strong girl in appearance but,
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under this mask, she was very sensitive and always lonely, like her mother. She wore her loneliness naturally and it always accompanied her. Hana tried to get rid of it, without much success; it had become her companion. She suffered constantly, perhaps more than her mother. Hana was full of emotions. Sensitive people have the power to know pain better, it fuels their loneliness, because others do not have the power to understand them, nor to grasp their inner sorrow. The arms of loneliness are always open to those who suffer, like a mother who never leaves her children…
Crossing the alleys of Ghasr-o-Dasht, the old neighbourhood of her childhood where she had many memories, Hana saw joyful shadows strolling before her eyes. She felt her skin tingling.
The Iran of today no longer resembled the Iran of yesteryears. Colours, smells, tastes, values, everything now had a different form.
“In the earlier days, there was sorrow, difficulties, but there was also warmth and more social security,” she said to herself. Perhaps Hana was idealizing the past, which mostly becomes gentle, peaceful, and quiet in comparison to the present.
In the gardens of Ghasr-o-Dasht, the sounds of laughter filled the air. The voices of young people dancing all night, the luxury cars parked near the garden. Stylish girls with coloured hair, faces made up like dolls, compared their different surgeries of
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the nose, cheeks, lips. Sensual lips, artificially swollen which could excite men. Blue and green contact lenses attracted the insincere, handsome boys. They looked at each other while gauging one another. True talents and natural beauty were being worn away day by day in this materialistic culture. What made each person valuable was what they possessed and the number of times they had cosmetic surgery. This culture of appearance had spread to the poor neighbourhoods of the city. To become beautiful and to remain so was the dearest wish of girls from the age of fifteen. Behind the masked and vague faces, perplexity was foremost in the eyes of people, whether old or young, woman or man, everyone seemed to wander aimlessly.
Hana looked up at the sky and saw the planes which bombarded the cities during the war. Now waves of Iranian immigrants used these planes, which no longer bombed anything, to leave the country like birds released from their cages. They immigrated in the hope of finding a purpose in their lives, a meaning to exist, to fight, to understand the purpose of the day.
Hana did not wish to take the plane in order to find meaning in her life elsewhere. She sat in front of the mirror and stared at herself, while the sounds of long forgotten music and rain filled the air in the room. She saw her mother enter the room. Hana noticed that she had become younger and
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more beautiful than ever. The two women looked a lot alike now. Madam Simine was dressed in a magnificent red dress and carried a plate full of cherries in her hands. She stood behind her daughter and looked at the mirror.
– Mama, our house is one of joy, isn’t it? Do we still have to wait?
– We may never be able to grasp it, my dear. You have to be very young. Much younger than you and I, because the past should not be taken into account. Don’t compare anything. You must seek happiness by emptying your bag of memories. Perhaps you will encounter an illusion of joy. Accept it! You won’t be confused anymore. I am too old to seek happiness. As for you, don’t look for happiness any more, especially on the eve of your thirtieth year. No matter where you will go, where you will be, your heart and your roots are in this house. You can’t dispel your grief.
She gave the cherries to her daughter. Hana put them in her mouth and the pulp of the cherries reddened her lips. Listening to the sound of the rain, Hana relived her memories as a child, running around happily, wearing her older sister’s wedding dress. She didn’t know where she was running, women and men were happily chasing her, with their blue and green eyes!
The Woman in the Mirror
Atfirst, everything seems simpler than what one can imagine… simpler and happier. It starts with the first look, a simple greeting, then the first laugh, the first lighthearted jokes. Then, gradually, the delicious thrill of waiting, when one is languishing with desire for someone. A strange kind of feeling takes over and one doesn’t know if it is anxiety or a light, sweet and charming intoxication, the beginning of a relationship that could last! The sensual and exquisite tingling that one feels when we touch each other, the desire to say to him: “it’s me!” I hide my dark side, but do you see the brighter qualities in me? How do you imagine me? Am I good enough for you?...
And after a while perplexity sets in. There is nothing common between us anymore and everything ends unexpectedly. After a certain period of weariness, of being lost by this sudden interruption, everything returns to the way it was before, while the hole that the nail made in the heart, in the mind and in the memory never disappears, not even with time.
I wonder where I can find a secluded place in the crowded streets of Tehran. A quiet café located in a discreet neighbourhood. A place tucked away to drink a cup of bitter coffee, without the daily worries of a city that never stops moving. As I immerse myself in my thoughts, I realize that I have walked down my usual path. All roads lead to Rome and all streets of Tehran to Café Shiraz! I gulp down the fresh air of the last days of March with a particular pleasure and I enter the café.
The establishment is not full of people, just a few vagabond young girls and boys who do not know what to do. The wavy, colourful hair of the girls, escapes from their scarves, and glistening makeup hides their real faces. They stare at the others with a look of astonishment; perhaps they are discussing their bewilderment regarding a fragile, vitrified, disintegrating society with the skinny boys in ripped jeans! I can easily imagine myself in their place. I think we all suffer from a common pain. We are all lost and it is ridiculous. What will happen to us? Nobody knows. I had read somewhere that Iran is the cradle of civilization, but I believe it is the cradle of uncertainty! I smile at this deception and leave the youngsters alone.
There is a small round table at the end of the living room. The bartender knows me well, this customer who is crouched behind the small table. The man nods his head which means “usual coffee?”
This bitter, thick coffee with a small piece of chocolate. As soon as I nod, he gets to work. I look around while waiting for the coffee and stare at the photos on the wall. The artistic, social, intellectual photos that have filled the empty spaces of today’s cafés or perhaps the emptiness of the minds of people who call themselves “modern men!”. Among these photos, that of a Qajar 8 woman catches my attention. Why is it there? A photo which seems so out of place indicates the bad taste of the proprietor of the café who presents himself as an intellectual! Why is this the first time that I’ve seen this photo? And today it blew me away.
The Qajar woman wears a floral headscarf, long narrow trousers and a short skirt in the fashion of a hundred years ago. She grimaces awkwardly in a frame that gives off an unpleasant musty smell. A lonely woman looking sullen, as if a scarf had been forcibly pulled over her hair, and she had been forced to sit down in front of the photographer.
There is no sign of coquetry or feminine elegance in the sad face of this chubby woman who lets two black locks of hair escape from under her headscarf and who stares fixedly at the camera, as if the world owed her much and that life was responsible for all her miseries...
8The Qajar dynasty ruled Iran from 1786 until 1925.
Hearing the voice of the bartender bringing my coffee broke my thoughts. I thank him with a fleeting smile and bring the cup to my lips. The heat of the coffee burns them a little. I wet my lips, pinch them, and drink the rest of the coffee. Time stops moving forward at Café Shiraz. I never understand the passage of moments, and that even more so today.
I even found a new topic. The Qajar woman makes me smile now. An hour has passed and I have to leave. I look at the morose face of the Qajar woman for the last time and I stand up with general indifference.
The cold air of the last days of March penetrates through my light shawl, hits my damp hair and tingles the skin of my head. I take the first taxi, I have to arrive on time … I don’t want to sadden my favourite man.
[To have a few hours of peace with the man she loves at this time of her life, this woman is ready for anything…]
In fifteen minutes, I will be at his house. I feel a kind of anxiety as if disturbed by an unknown feeling of worry. My heart is beating fast in my chest. I smile while trying to console myself:
“It’s not your first date. A woman in her thirties still has the feelings of an eighteen-year-old girl! Each meeting is like the first.”
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All those years and all those men whose memory has never really weighed on me, but I carry these everywhere like a light and misty dust. Wherever I go, the memory of the men I’ve been with accompanies me, all the same, but barely felt.
Here I am behind the door of his apartment.
– Who is it?
When he hears no response, he opens the door a few moments later.
– I know the silent presence behind my door can only be you.
He invites me in with a smile:
– That white shawl suits you well. You know how to show off your charms in this closefitting coat.
– You know how much I love your compliments my dear?
He winks at me!
I avoid any arguments with him, even on subjects that seem important to me. At this moment, I only need peace, the warmth of a body for which I have such passion.
[The woman leans back casually on the sofa and puts her coat aside, then breathes in the sweet, fragrant aroma that wafts from her breasts and hair
and examines the man from head to toe. He is a tall, slender, dark-haired man with dark brown eyes and a penetrating gaze. Although he is lean, his bones are strong, and his arms ardent.]
He doesn’t talk much and smells really good. A very fresh but sharp smell, like himself. His face is not cheerful, he may be living in distress. I never asked why. Everyone lives with some kind of inner grief. Who knows? No one is happy and this man is no exception. There are a few scars on his face, the little indentations created by the scratch of the razor on the skin, lately he hides these under a short beard and he doesn’t shave anymore. It makes him more masculine, more seductive, at least to me.
[He looks good, but he, like the others, is not someone special. A special kind of person with whom this woman would like to chat, to talk about her interests, her loneliness and sometimes her inner fears. Some moments when she has pretended to be happy, talking about the mysterious woman that she imagines herself to be all the time. The woman she would like to be in real life, strong and beautiful.]
Sometimes I wish I could chat, until I was out of breath or ashamed to say too much. No, this man certainly does not want to listen to me or discover me. He sits down in front of me and asks:
– What’s the song that you’ve chosen today?
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– Black trombone. A beautiful old song by Serge Gainsbourg.
– Hmm, good choice.
He looks at me and then looks at the CD with indifference.
[Each time she comes, this woman brings him a new song. As always, she tries to make herself known through songs, books, and her dresses. By all that which symbolizes her.]
I enthusiastically translate all the phrases for my beloved man.
“It’s not bad, he had a beautiful voice.”
He lights a cigarette without saying anything more. I stiffen, as if someone had suddenly drenched me with cold water.
I say nothing more and wait with frustration for the last puffs of his cigarette…
Although I visit this apartment a lot, with each new visit a kind of worry and melancholy accompany me.
I want to return to my simple life as soon as possible. The walls seem foreign to me. The bed on which I lie still seems unfamiliar to me.
[Smiling, he walks up to this woman, but with a fixed and mischievous stare. In this apartment that looks like a box of matches, she feels all alone.]
The man takes my hand and I follow him with pleasure. The only thing I really like in the bedroom is the standing mirror, because it records all the moments… the timeless moments that I love to remember forever. I look at the mirror and entrust my body into the arms of the man, in whose arms I always seek tranquility.
He knows how he should begin, and I always go mad with pleasure from the very first moment. He gently kisses my earlobe with his lips, then his kisses grow more passionate and longer. When his tongue probes the skin on the nape of my neck, it gives me a coolness that gives rise to an exquisite tremor that, for a few moments, I completely forget my inner loneliness. Despite the distance that is there between us, this woman who is Me , gets accustomed to the body of this man and to the rhythm of his existence.
Time stops, and my body stretches in pleasure as I feel his tongue on my neck, spine, on my groin. I stroke his hair and go wild with joy. How I like to touch his body. The skin of the man is moist, fragrant and fresh. Fresh like a child’s skin. His body struggles to free itself from my fingers which caress his spine as one would touch the keys of a piano. It is in these moments that this woman, who is Me , has a lot to say. The words invade my brain like a torrent...
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– Where are you? Why are you so inattentive?
That’s when I feel the rapid penetration that runs vigorously through the moist tunnel that welcomes him warmly. His heart beats strongly and I feel a fever inside of me. I snuggle into his arms and I don’t want to let go.
[This woman wildly desires the entire body of the man. Not only his body, but his whole being, his feelings, his heart, his soul… she tries to hold on to it with all her might.]
I sigh and tremble; in enjoyment, I lose my power. My efforts to hold on to him become futile and the distance between us returns. Confused, I look at myself in the mirror.
I suddenly see the Qajar woman still staring at me with a face that has no intention of brightening. With her pursed lips, perhaps she wants to say something more:
“The people in the mirror are lonelier than they appear.”
Who was the woman trapped within the old wooden frame? I would never know. Was she also alone and had nothing more to say? Did she feel victimized, hoping for a faint spark of joy?
I no longer want to think about the strange woman in the photo frame, I just want to return home, to my simple little room that smells of
family life and childhood. I long to go back home to crouch on my bed thinking that I am still a happy young girl, not a lonely woman desperately seeking love and peace in the arms of men she has no connection with.
[This woman looks at the man, lying so close to her. What was she doing there? In the final analysis of an intimate relationship, she was simply an unexpected guest in the bed on which she lay.]
I get up. He opens his eyes and looks at me in surprise.
– You’re leaving already?
With a wry smile I kiss his lips and cover my head with my shawl.
– Hana, come back soon! As you well know, “this man” can’t wait too long!
I laugh.
– I’ll be back soon, whenever you want me. That was exactly what he wanted to hear...
I leave the apartment and suddenly feel like a child who has been brusquely thrown into the adult world. I look at the light, hazy dust of the men I always carry over my head like an umbrella. I have to find another place to keep them, maybe in my purse. I open it and throw the dust of these men into it. After all these years, I now know one
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thing very well: “I could never find inner peace in passing from one man to another.”
The cycle repeats. I got tired of it. While murmuring the last lines of the song Black Trombone, the woman sets off on her way: “Nobody can surprise me anymore, I’m giving up, it’s over!” Other moments await her, moments that will have neither rhyme nor reason!
Translator’s Note
It has been my pleasure to translate Sanaz Safari’s book “Les Go sans de la triste patrie” into English, under a new title Elegy for the Lost. It is also a matter of great pride and joy, not only to me, but to the publishers to say that Sanaz has been specially honoured for the French version of her book (written under a pen name), by the jury for the “Prix Christiane Baroche”, 2022.
Her book is a compilation of short stories based on real events, stories of courageous men and women who were arrested, beaten, raped, tortured and killed for their fight for liberty and freedom. Sanaz has, with great sensitivity, narrated each person’s story in a realistic and poignant manner. As desired by the author, I have updated and made a few changes in the chapters so that it brings clarity and makes it more readable.
I also take this opportunity to express my gratitude to Jeya, Swapna and Sanaz who went through the text with utmost care and suggested changes;
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many thanks to Ashis who came up with the meaningful title “ Elegy for the Lost”. My appreciation once again to Sanaz, who spent long hours over the phone with me to explain certain nuances of Iranian culture and the situation in Iran. That certainly helped me in my translation and in the decisions I had to take when it came to political and cultural nuances. I hope, in this way, I have reached out to our readers and have made their reading an enriching experience.
It has been a wonderful journey for me to get to know the ethos, the culture and the civilisation of the Iranian people and to understand as well as sympathise with the struggles and travails of the women and the people of this beautiful country.
Alice Anugraham