Revolution’s Impact
It was a snowy January evening in 1979 when we landed at JFK. We had left Tehran in December amidst a revolution, my late ex-husband Meir, my ten-year-old daughter Jessica, and me. We walked out of customs wondering, what now? We were tired, we were numb, and in shock from all the events we had experienced during the last few months. As we stood there in the winter cold, a man approached us. “Taxi,” he asked? We nodded our heads. He led us to a bus that took us to a hotel in Queens, off the LIE. We checked in, quickly got ready for bed. We were exhausted, and it took us no time to fall asleep.
In the morning, we looked out of the window. The snow was coming down fast. It was a winter storm. We dressed and went down for breakfast. The dining room was almost empty. A tall, skinny waitress with unrealistically dyed red hair, that looked as if it belonged on Ronald McDonald’s head, approached us. Her face was covered with chalky almost white makeup, and her eyes were heavily rimmed in black. She led us to a table by the window. As we sat down, she placed the menus in front of us. To me, her scarlet nails looked like blood-dipped talons of a bird of prey. Perhaps my nerves were overwrought, but that impression stayed embedded in my memory till now, almost forty years later. It was the first time I had come across a New York diner waitress. The grammar, the accent, all were quite strange to me.
As we breakfasted, we listlessly looked out at the snow outside rushing relentlessly to the ground, a big storm, like the vicious turn of events in our country. My mind wandered to the past summer…
Kelly, our son, had been in boarding school in England since he was six years old. My sister Nora persuaded me to transfer him closer to her. She lived in San Francisco. My sister Gilda and my brother Jacky lived in LA and San Diego respectively. My brother-in-law Ezra and his family lived in San Jose. That summer, after Kelly’s summer term was over, Jessica, Kelly, and I set out to San Francisco. It was a pleasant trip. We registered Kelly at school then traveled to visit everyone. As the summer drew to a close, Meir called. He asked me not to come back home. There was civil and political unrest in Iran. I could not just not go back. If things were so bad, I had to go back and arrange my affairs. So, Jessica and I cut our trip short and headed back. We landed in Mehrabad Airport. Everything had changed in the two months we had been away. There were armed soldiers with stern stony faces everywhere. As we drove home, I noticed the streets were lined with huge tanks that covered the width of the road. On top of them stood more soldiers with guns at the ready. The streets were crowded with shoppers and restaurant-goers and carefree people. Now, people walked avoiding eye contact with each other and passed in wary silence. The women wore modest clothing, not wanting to draw attention to themselves. After our arrival, my mother came back. She felt unsafe. The first thing we both did when we returned was to go to the vaults to remove our jewelry. Life went on. Our maid, Nargess, who had been with our family since I was ten, disappeared as did all the others who served the different families.
One morning, I had just washed my hair and was blow-drying it as I sat in front of my dressing table. Above the sound of the hairdryer, I heard the persistent sound of the front door ringing. My neighbor stood there, pale and anxious-looking. Together, we walked towards the balcony. There was a ring of fire surrounding the city! We were isolated! I decided to search for necessities, but I was too late. The shops were ransacked, and the shopkeepers were in a hurry to close their stores. I could not get hold of anyone. Just when I thought I could bear no more, we heard her school bus trundle up the hill. Meir and I took turns holding our daughter and covering her with kisses. I was so relieved, so grateful to have my child safe in front of me!
That evening, we discussed the day’s alarming and confusing events. The next morning, we brought Papa to our house for safety. We spent the day trying to connect to the outside world, glued to the television for news updates. The devastation was unbelievable. Buildings had been set on fire, cars overturned, and the city in chaos. We decided it was time to leave. We packed all our belongings and left, leaving behind a country in turmoil.
As we walked out of my parental home for the last time, I looked at my father’s face brimming with tears, representing a lifetime of toil and family memories being abandoned. We all moved into an apartment and continued to navigate the uncertain and fearful times as a family.
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