Childhood Memories of Political Unrest
I just read a particularly violent piece of news that disturbed me and made me shudder deeply. It hurled me back emotionally to a time in my past when there was great political unrest in Iran. There had been a power struggle between the Shah and Dr. Mossadeq, the prime minister. Dr. Mossadeq intended to overthrow the Shah and takeover. He did not believe in the Westernization of Iran.
I could not have been very old. I remember that I had just got what I considered to be my first grown-up bed. It looked the same as a real adult bed, except there were low guard rails halfway down to prevent me from falling out while I slept.
I must have had my own bedroom, for I cannot remember either of my sisters sharing it with me. One of my parents had told me a bedtime story earlier and tucked me safely into bed. The sound of the water in the canals nearby felt like a gentle lullaby to the little girl I was. Soon my eyes closed, and I was in dreamland frolicking about.
Down the street from us lived Afshar Tousse, a minister in the Shah’s cabinet. I did not know much of him, if indeed I knew anything at all. After all, I was just a little girl intent on chasing butterflies in the garden in summer, admiring the colorful leaves in autumn, and cutting out clothes for my paper dolls in winter. I was well taken care of and had no reason to concern myself with politics, living in a child’s paradise.
That night, as I was chasing some childish fancy in my dreams, I was rudely awoken by the sound of fearful bellowing that went on and on. It sounded like a tortured cow being slaughtered. It must have been very late at night because, except for those blood-curdling screams, all else had been peacefully silent. Our world was in deep slumber. As I quickly emerged from mine, I felt terror. In the darkness of my bedroom, my eyes were wide open with terror. The screams went on and on, then suddenly there was absolute silence. My heartbeats slowed down. I took a deep breath. ‘Mama! Papa!’ I called out desperately. They scooped us out of our beds and into theirs, hugging us closely. We stayed there the whole night, feeling safe in being together.
It was later the next morning that we found out what had occurred. A group of political assassins had gone to Afshar Tousse’s home and murdered him. What we heard were his gruesome death throes. I never forgot that night. However, I had protected myself from those cries by tucking them deeply inside pleasant memories. As I sipped my tea and read about this violent occurrence in the papers, my heart began to beat uncontrollably, and the memory of those terrifying moments rushed back. Once more I was that little girl.
I thought to myself, does violence and hatred never end? Will peace never come? Can people not learn to respect and love each other? Never? Ever?