The Red-Haired Beggar Girls, or A Matter of Fate
There was poverty in Iran when we lived there. I suppose there still is. The more privileged population felt beholden to help the less fortunate. There was no government system to assist the poor. We all aided the people who worked for us and their families. We gave alms to the needy; if we had leftovers after a meal, we had special bowls which we filled with food and left outside our homes. At our home, the bowls of food were placed underneath the shade of a tree by the stream that ran beside it. The hungry in turn left the empty bowls where they found them, knowing that whenever there were leftovers, the bowls would be filled once more. Most people were aware of the plight of the poor and made sure to leave food for them. One summer afternoon, from my kitchen window, I noticed three young girls with bright red hair come around. Their heads were bare, not covered as was the custom. Their long hair was neatly braided down their backs. They were clean and pleasant to look at. At first, they came with their mother. Later on, they began to come on their own. I asked Nargess, our housekeeper, to make extra food. I had questioned them and realized there were seven of them that their parents had to raise. Their father worked hard but he struggled to feed and clothe them all. One day, as they were passing our home with their mother, they noticed the food. They stopped and ate. After that, they got into the habit of coming frequently. All through the summer they came. They sat under the shade of the tree as they ate. They brought a container to take some food to share with their families. As I observed them from my window, their behavior touched my heart. How would I have felt as a child, if I were as hungry as they were? Would I have had such self-control, as they did, to save food for the rest of the family even though I was ravenous? They were of such a tender age. I honestly cannot imagine what I would have done. There was a shyness and a quiet dignity about them. Their clothes were worn and patched, yet clean. I became fascinated by them. Redheads were rare in the Persian race. If they were redheads, it would be because they dyed their hair with henna. Usually, you would find natural redheads to be either Turks from the north of Iran or Jews. These girls were natural redheads. I did not want to delve deeply into their affairs, so I did not ask them who they were. In fact, I rarely spoke to them. I just observed from my vantage point. Season followed season. In autumn, the weather was still warm enough for them to sit outside to eat. Then winter came. The weather became cold. They wore sheepskin vests over their threadbare clothes, which the poor wore to keep warm. These vests still smelled like sheep, as they were made from the skins of newly slaughtered sheep and were not treated. I was keeping my distance but becoming attached to them as I continued to observe them. I gave them some of our clothes and warm fabrics that I bought at the bazaar. It became colder and colder still. Snow began to fall. It was just too cold to feed them outside. I asked Nargess to feed them inside on the landing. It was nice and warm there. She did not like that idea. Nargess had come with me from my parents’ house when I got married. She, her mother, and sister worked at my parents’ home since I was a young girl. She had no qualms about expressing her opinions. If she did not like something I did, she threatened to tell my mother. Now she disapproved of my letting the little girls eat on the landing, but she could disapprove and threaten as much as she wanted. My mother would have done the very same. Besides, I needed to show that her threats had no effect on me. I was no longer a young bride. I was her mistress now, not my mother. She just did not like the idea that I allowed the girls to come inside, and I really did not care! Time passed and the girls continued to come. The following summer, my daughter and I went to England where we picked my son from boarding school and continued on to the United States. We had planned to move my son from the English boarding school he attended on to California. My sister had suggested it would be more sensible to have him near her. That way, he would be able to go to her on weekends and feel he had family, unlike in England, where we still did not have close relatives. My husband agreed. His brother also lived not too far away from the school. It made sense. Because I was away, Nargess did not feed the little girls. By the time my daughter and I returned to Tehran, the revolution had begun. The little girls had stopped coming for food when I left. In the name of Allah, the Khomeini people were urging the working class to stop going to work for the ‘rich.’ Overnight, domestics and office workers stopped working. None of them came. The country was paralyzed by Khomeini’s movement. We experienced blackouts. Huge tanks with armed soldiers were in every corner of the city. A somber and anxious air hung over everything at all times. The atmosphere that winter of 1978 had become so dire that we decided to leave. I forgot about the three red-haired sisters. I had other things occupying my mind. It was difficult being uprooted. It was even harder adjusting. Times were difficult. Today, all these many years later, for some reason I thought of them and wondered what had happened to all of them. I wondered what happened to Nargess? And those three little girls? What happened to all of them? I did not know their names, but I felt a certain affection for them. And Nargess? What is she doing? Is she even still alive? If she is, she must be an old lady; even her grandchildren would be in their thirties. I wish them all luck. It was another world and another time. If it were not for the revolution, we would still be there. It was just a matter of fate, just the way the wind blew…