Wedding Song (23 page)

I knew I was in big trouble. Moslem students started reading Arabic when they were in the second grade. Although I knew a few things about Islam and Moslem prayers, I had never practiced
namaz
, the daily prayers
that others knew so well. Not only were the words unfamiliar, the body language, kneeling, putting hands over ears, and bowing at the right time, were important and insulting if performed wrong. I had heard my classmates mocking the Sunni Moslems’ method of praying.
Namaz
was an exact art, I had come to realize.

I asked a good Moslem friend to write the instructions for me and, to my father’s disbelief, covered my hair, bared my feet, and went through the motions, proclaiming Mohammed as the God’s messenger. My father knew an argument with the school would evoke more hostility and kept quiet. As for reading of the Koran, I soon realized that the very first section of each
sura
was the easiest to read, so I managed to raise my hand quickly and ask with enthusiasm to be the first to read the sentence that starts all writings in Islam: “
Bismilahe rahmane rahim
, in the name of the divine merciful God.”

That year, my last year in the elementary school, the pressure built up in the house, where interpersonal relationships were becoming more complicated as our numbers increased. My father’s brother Morad and his wife had two children by then. The arguments became more intense now that every squabble among the children became a reason for the adults to fight.

One day, my grandmother gave me a piece of watermelon in the kitchen. Morad’s wife complained that I ate a big piece and didn’t leave enough for her children. Plus, she should have been offered first. Morad and my father fought when they came home that day, Morad taking his wife’s side, my father, my grandmother’s side. Soon, my father’s shirt was torn off him, the bloody imprint of Morad’s nails on his bare chest. We huddled behind him. Baba tried to close the glass doors on his brother. Morad shattered them with his fist, sending glass nuggets flying over me, too stunned to cry or scream. The overt hatred and animosities nibbled at the self-esteem and happiness of my siblings and myself like locusts on green wheat kernels in spring. There was no way out.

From time to time, someone in the family tried to break away from the suffocating atmosphere. Jahangeer, by then a well-known dentist, found his own apartment and moved out for a short time, but my grandmother cried that the family was falling apart and blamed my mother. She besieged my father to keep the family together for the sake of their father’s spirit. Jahangeer came back, and he and my grandmother moved into the
upstairs apartment, which had been without a tenant for a while. My mother still cooked and the entire family ate the meals together downstairs, but my uncle had some autonomy over his own life. He bought a refrigerator, the only one in the house, and my grandmother guarded it against those of us downstairs. She considered the area a sacred space, where her son would eventually bring a wife and establish a family.

On Fridays, my only day off, I swept and dusted the second-floor apartment, scrubbed and washed its tiled floors and the bathroom under the watchful eyes of my grandmother. She didn’t understand that I wasn’t interested in the material goods, the silver cutlery or the china. Like my siblings, I only stole food items, a tangerine from the tree in the backyard, a handful of pistachios from the neat bundles hidden in the back room, slices of American-style bread that my grandmother carefully tucked away behind dishes in the upstairs kitchen cabinet.

The issues of ownership had become complicated. Both Morad and my father considered the house to be theirs, wanting the other to move out. We begged my father to leave, but it was a matter of power and pride, and he didn’t want to be the loser. Morad and his family moved out to an apartment after many open fights. I visited their place with my grandmother once in a while, who called it a disgrace that they had been booted out. They moved back.

Personally, I had a difficult time finding an escape. I lost myself in foreign books, renting instead of buying them to stretch my money. I tried to avoid every family member as much as possible, visited friends after school, and didn’t come home until dark. My father didn’t know because he came home even later, working, enjoying his new business in poultry farming. But I still could see my siblings being abused and again kept silent so we would have quiet, so there would be no blood drawn. No matter how I tried to insulate myself, the conflict found ways to seep into my life like the rain that had brought our mud roof down so many times when we lived in the ghetto. Morad started regularly calling Nahid
shashoo
, the one who is drenched in her own pee. We were open to insults. Nahid was slapped when she was busy with her homework and didn’t go out to socialize with the aunts; she was slapped when she forgot to announce that the mail had come in. The hatred grew and festered like a giant wound immune to any known therapy. The air in the house became poisonous, but I kept silent, and so did my siblings.

My period started that year amidst the unrest, the bickering, and the absolute lack of privacy. And as that year came to end, I had a déjà vu of my first grade. I wasn’t able to register for the school of my choice; its principal told me that there were already too many Jews enrolled. I had to ask Jahangeer, who was a respected dentist in town and knew influential people, to intercede on my behalf, as he would again six years later to help me change majors in college. As I was ready to start junior high, I was an awkward teenager, feeling confused, hurt, unwanted, lost, and helpless to save myself, my sister, and my brothers.

As I had never before seen animal crackers, I didn’t know about other American sweets either. What we called chocolate in Iran was a chewy caramel-colored square candy wrapped in colorful, glittery paper, more like saltwater taffy. I am surprised children didn’t choke on its sweet rubbery texture. Many times I had to put my finger down my throat to retrieve the goo that blocked my air-tunnel. Still, all children loved the troublesome candy, and every time I had a few rials, I ran to the little kiosk a block away to buy a handful. They usually lasted a few days because they were so difficult to eat. Maybe that was the purpose of the formula, to make children eat them languidly and frugally, to learn patience as they took little bites, knowing the fine line between savoring its sweetness slowly or choking on it.

At the end of my sixth grade, Baba came home from work one day with a treat: small milk chocolate bars with fluffy, smooth sweetness inside— made in America. He gave me two. Boxes of the sweets were donated to the
Sohonot
, the office of the Jewish agency a block away from my father’s shop, to be distributed among the underprivileged Jewish children. I gobbled up the first bar, inhaling it, not bothering to chew. It was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted in my life. The second one I ate slowly, taking the tiniest bites every day, until it became hard and crumbly in the pocket of my black uniform. Although the chocolate was no longer edible, I kept the crumbs and smelled them once in a while. When I washed my uniform, I was careful to go around the pocket. My mother finally got hold of it when I wasn’t around. She took the inside of the pocket out and washed it a few times, grumbling that the chocolate had
embedded itself into the fabric. I was furious at her for washing away the sweet smell of the chocolate, and didn’t know why.

I tried all different chocolate bars when I moved to America. Many looked like the one I remembered, but none tasted so good. I know now that I don’t really like chocolate. I hadn’t cherished the crumbs as food. The gift of chocolate by the American humanitarians made me realize for the first time in my life that there were people somewhere far away who knew I existed and who cared about me. They had reached out to me. I hung onto these anonymous American benefactors as my saviors for many years. At that moment, I knew that I was going to leave and find a new home, my very own place in the world. I knew that there was hope in my future. For the first time, I started to dream of America.

Around 1908, when my paternal grandmother was nine years old, her mother Bibi took Khanom-bozorg to her future husband’s home to clean
sabzee
for an herb stew, peel cooked potatoes for
shamee
, pluck a chicken for Shabbat, draw water from the well, and scrub clothes over her hands with homemade soap. Those were her tests to prove to her mother-in-law that she could be a good housewife, a trainable worker. She passed the tests, but was divorced two years later at age twelve for having run away too many times. Each time my grandmother escaped her in-laws’ house, Bibi hit her own chest in exasperation and returned Khanom-bozorg to her husband’s home, but eventually she was refused. Who needed such an unruly woman? Discarded, my grandmother learned to turn wool into thread with her homemade spindle and to weave socks to make a living.

Turning fifteen, my paternal grandmother, whose name “Tavous” means “peacock” in Persian, was given in marriage to my grandfather. This time, she didn’t protest. Her new husband—well-known and respected in the community—had lost his wife after their third child was born. Tavous was sturdy. She had strong legs, wide hips for childbearing, and strong hands for raising children and running a household. She remained married to my grandfather until he died, raising his three sons from a previous marriage as well as eight children of their own.

When my turn came for marriage, the rules had changed somehow—women weren’t married off at such a young age, but the old rules stood that they had to be clever housekeepers, be modest, and be accepting of the elders’ role in arranging marriages. In keeping the traditions, I learned
to clean
sabzee
and chop it too; I knew how to shell fava beans for
baghela polo
, and how to wash fresh tobacco, salt, and dry it for my grandmother’s waterpipe. I helped wash the clothes by hand and press them with a charcoal iron. I polished everyone’s shoes on Fridays for Shabbat. I could clean the lining of the cow’s intestines and the four stomachs and stuff them with a mixture of cilantro, short grain rice, and split yellow peas.

My maternal great-grandmother, Dina Salem. Her husband’s early death made her destitute, forcing her to marry off her daughters very young
.

I also spent quite a lot of time beside my father in his jewelry workshop, watching him string pearls on gold threads and sew them on a solid piece of gold hammered into the shape of flowers. I frequently sat beside my great-uncle, Daee-bozorg, in our backyard under the shade of the rose tree as he rinsed gold and silver particles from the rubbish that came from my father’s shop. I listened to the stories of his adventures in Baghdad while he melted the gold dust and poured it into iron casts. He told me
Biblical stories too as I crouched next to him and watched him weigh flour for Passover
matzah
, shadowing him whenever he was around. He showed me how he built a mud
tanoor
for baking the unleavened bread and, unlike other adults, he enjoyed my questions; I loved his stories.

Dina’s mother, Adina Sabba. Her successful merchant husband was murdered in an Iranian village for being Jewish. His death brought financial devastation to the family
. Most of the family pictures were collected and preserved by Nahid Gerstein.

Until I was of marriagable age, around sixteen years old, I acted as a son to my father and followed him on his business ventures into poultry farming, helped him experiment with hatching chicks and feeding them at home. I traveled with him to Tehran and watched him conduct his business.
Therefore, my world was dramatically different from that of the women I knew. The bond between my father and me lasted for many years and didn’t break until my brothers were older, and I became more assertive.

Dina’s mother-in-law, Hamineh Saed. She diligently helped the Alliance school in Hamedan
. Picture courtesy of Alliance office in New York.

The first time the
khastegaree
, the marriage proposal, came for me, I was only twelve years old. I was at the movies with my mother to see an American comedy,
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
. Wearing a new brown dress with yellow flowers, I yearned to run and make its flowing skirt twirl, but I knew girls had to be modest and squashed my desire to skip from happiness. As we waited in the newly opened indoor theatre, an old woman in
chador
approached my mother and whispered something in her ears, while her eyes focused on me.

My mother threw her chin up, indicating a negative answer in the Iranian fashion. “No,” she said.

Still staring at me, the old woman replied, “He’s from a good family.” I
hid behind my mother’s skirt. “You don’t know what fate will bring. You should consider it. You don’t want to wait too long,” she warned.

A synagogue in Shiraz. Mothers lined their daughters on the front row of the balcony, or right outside the windows in the yard, for a good viewing by eligible bachelors
.

“I was married young myself. I don’t want my daughter to have the same fate,” my mother said. She gave her refusal finality by turning her back and walking away. Then she looked directly into my eyes. “I could have given you to them, you know. That’s what happened to me.”

I kept quiet, but my heart ached. I felt helpless; I crossed my arms to hide my small budding breasts. Feeling flushed from the stranger’s gaze, I tried to hide behind my mother until the lights started flashing and we entered the movie hall.

The incident led to two major squabbles with my extended family. I was ruining my posture, they said, by covering my chest with my books, by hugging the bag of groceries, or by crossing my arms. A family member’s fists usually landed on my back to straighten it out, and although the shock worked momentarily, I stooped as soon as the pain subsided.

Despite the fact that I had become reticent, one family member or the other constantly reminded me of my past
veragi
. With my new attitude, they gave me yet another hated title:
kaleh-shagh
, stiff-necked and stubborn.
The elders particularly scolded me for refusing to act as they wished when in public. Saturday evenings, Jewish women gathered at the large traffic circle in Felke-ye-Shah, which displayed a gigantic statue of the Shah on horseback standing on top of a monument. Roses, geraniums, water fountains, benches, and modern lighting decorated the tiny park. Women greeted one another. “
Shavua tov
, a good beginning for the week ahead!”

Each family chose a corner, spread a small Persian rug, and pulled out sandwiches and drinks, waiting for the men to join them after services at the synagogue. My grandmother always told me to go for a walk, and if I refused, she took me for a stroll herself. I blushed and tried to make myself as small as possible until my father’s or uncle’s fist came down on my back. Since this was a place for matchmaking, the family expected me to be gracious, but I wouldn’t smile and often refused to go through the custom of exchanging niceties, embarrassing and infuriating them.

When my aunts came to visit my grandmother on Saturdays and Wednesday evenings, I helped my mother serve tea and biscuits, watermelon slices, sour cherry
sharbat
, and romaine lettuce with pickled vegetables or mint syrup. In fine weather, they sat on a Persian carpet on the bricked backyard, under the citrus trees; at other times, they gathered in a circle in the family room, sitting cross-legged, smoking waterpipes, and cracking squash seeds with their back teeth. They gossiped and asked for advice. Once in a while when I entered the room with a fresh pot of tea, they went quiet. Then, my grandmother would say, “Farideh, go outside for now and close the door.”

I left, turning to close the door just to see the women’s faces fixed on me. On those days, a new marriage proposal was being discussed. Someone had approached my grandmother in the women’s section in the balcony of the synagogue, another had made a call to my uncle’s office, a third had stopped by my father’s shop to say hello. Whoever was approached by a suitor’s family felt proud and became the defender of that family’s good name and fortune. Resentful and angry, I chewed my nails and felt the bile in my throat with each incident.

Whether I could accept it or not, I knew that high school was a time of marriage for many women. One by one the school administrators dismissed my classmates upon hearing the news of their engagements. Most parents wanted their daughters to marry young, when they were more desirable.
In those days, I was curious why so many teenage girls went willingly to the slaughterhouse—which was my view of marriage.

Cousin Ziba married shortly after high school. The day of her wedding, women of the family divided into two groups; one group celebrated with my cousin, while the other plucked the chickens for the festivities that night. The more prestigious women, including my grandmother, the mothers of the bride and groom, some aunts, and many prominent women of the community, leaned against large pillows on Persian carpets in the living room of my aunt’s house, decorated for a pre-wedding party. Some of the younger female cousins passed around trays of sweets, limeade, and
sharbat
as older women showered the bride with candy, covered their mouths with their
chador
s and ululated, “
Kililili
.” The second group of women—my mother, myself, my sister, the washer-woman, and her daughter—sat on low stools behind the party room in the brick-paved backyard to clean mounds of chickens.