The Echoes of Revolution: A New Beginning
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 I. We walked out of customs wondering, what now? We were tired, we were numb and in shock from all the events that 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. I looked at her balefully. Her face reminded me of a raccoon.
’Do youse all want breakfast?” she asked. Youse? Youse? What kind of word was that, I wondered.
She led us to a table by the window. As we sat down, she placed the menus in front of us. She opened them for us and pointed to the breakfast menu. 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 until 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 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. What Nora suggested made sense. Kelly would have family around him. We agreed to try that and Nora set about finding a boarding school for him.
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. To me that seemed impossible. 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. As I kissed my son goodbye, I could not perceive what was to come.
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. Jessica and I eyed them with alarm. Before we had left for California we had celebrated Jessica’s Girl Scout ceremony which had been officiated by the British Ambassador in Tehran. The streets were crowded with shoppers and restaurant-goers and carefree people. Now, as people walked, they avoided eye contact with each other and passed in wary silence. There were no rambunctious, happy conversations to be heard as you walked down the streets. The women wore sedate, modest clothing, not wanting to draw attention to themselves. There was an ominous feeling of anxiety and fear in the air. After our arrival, my mother, who had been in London, came back. She did not stay too long; she felt unsafe. This time, she went to Israel where her siblings lived. The first thing we both did when we returned, was to go to the vaults to remove our jewelry. It felt safer. Life went on. My father and husband continued to go to their respective offices. Jessica went to school. She went to a British school further up north than where we lived. Each morning the school bus would pick her up at about seven o’clock in the morning and drop her back home at three. My ex would leave at about the same time. Our maid, Nargess, who had been with our family since I was ten and came with me when I got married, disappeared as did all the others who served the different families. They suddenly disappeared like rats deserting a sinking ship.
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 doorbell ringing. It was still early and I could not imagine who it could be. I hurried to answer. My neighbor stood there, pale and anxious-looking. As soon as I opened the door, she walked in and asked me if I had looked out of my window. I had not. Together we walked towards the balcony. She walked in front of me. I noticed she was visibly shaking. We stood at the balcony looking out in disbelief at what we beheld. There was a ring of fire surrounding the city! The only place that was not on fire were the mountain ranges in the north.
We knew what we had to do. It was the beginning of a coup d’état! We had experienced this before. Non-perishable food, fuel, candles, oil… Most important was to locate Jessica’s school and my father’s and husband’s offices. First I called Jessica’s school. The telephone rang on and on and on. Panic rose in me like an uncontrolled animal. Why were they not answering? My poor baby girl! She must be terrified. The ringing of the phone echoed on and on in some abandoned space. Next I called Papa and Meir. The same result. I called up my sister Nora in San Francisco. I needed to tell her to take care of Kelly. We were trapped in the middle of what seemed to be the beginnings of a revolution. My heart was thumping, I was trying to control the panic I felt. The phone rang. One ring, two rings. I heard Nora say, “Hello?” “Nora! Nora!” I began. Then the phone went dead. I dialed once more. The connections to the outside world were cut off; we were isolated!
I decided to be practical and go search for necessities, but I was too late. The shops were ransacked and the shopkeepers were in a hurry to close their stores and hurry back to their own homes and families. I walked back home dejectedly. I had not been able to achieve anything. I could not get hold of anyone. What would happen to my children? One was in the middle of a raging mob and the other far away from us! All I was able to obtain was a bag of potatoes, some onions, and some carrots. Nothing! Nothing!
When I got home, I could hear the phone ringing. I rushed to it, thinking it was either Jessica, Meir, or Papa. It was none of them; it was Meir’s cousin. He lived a few blocks away from us. His wife and daughters were in Israel for a visit. He was alone. I could imagine the anxiety he was feeling. I invited him to come over. I put the kettle on for tea. He was there in a few minutes. Conversation was difficult. We were both thinking of our families and what was occurring. Every once in a while we sighed deeply and waited. Time crawled slowly. It became noon then one, then two, then three… Where were Jessica and Papa and Meir? The streets were silent. No cars were on the road. Just after three, Meir arrived. He described the mobs, the hurling of rocks at cars, and the well-dressed people. This only succeeded in elevating my anxiety. My baby! My Jessica! Where was she? Oh, please God, please let her be alright. Let her come safely home. Please, dear God. Let my family be safe. Please, please, please… The time crawled by painstakingly. We got a call from Papa. He had reached home, safe. The skies began to darken. Still no Jessica. Just when I thought I could bear no more, we heard her school bus trundle up the hill. I rushed out to the street. The bus driver looked exhausted. It was past seven in the evening. I held my child in my arms and thanked him profusely. He smiled a tired smile and drove on. He had more children to deliver. 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! I was never able to thank that brave and wonderful driver for his dedication to the children. I was never to see him again. I never got a chance to truly thank him, but I never forgot him and bless him always. During the rest of the months that we were in the country, there was no school. Our whole world had turned upside down.
I served a hastily put-together meal for all of us. Afterwards, Meir’s cousin returned home. We put Jessica to bed and sat to discuss the events of the day. We were alarmed and confused.
The next morning we got up early to bring Papa to our house. It felt safer to be all together. We spent the day trying to connect to the outside world. Papa stayed at our flat, in Kelly’s bedroom. We were glued to the television, trying to glean as much news as we could. Outside the streets were empty. The people of Tehran were keeping a low profile, not knowing what to expect. The next day we decided to explore. We got into the car, Papa sat in front next to Meir; Jessica and I sat in the back. The devastation was unbelievable. Buildings had been set on fire. One high-rise building was completely gone. Its steel girders curled protectively around the rubble of bricks, marble, and all that was part of the building; it seemed to want to protect itself. Cars were turned on their backs with their tires pointed up to the sky, as if begging for mercy. Others were set on fire, their tires slashed—so senseless! The acrid smell of melted tires and smoke irritated us with each breath we drew. The wanton destruction was incomprehensible. What manner of people behaved this way?
We had seen enough. When we got home, we decided it was time to leave. We would pack all the things we wanted to take from my parents’ house and from ours. My Uncle Philippe’s company represented a shipping line. They came and packed all the household belongings from the two homes into a forty-foot container and sent it along its way. People came through our homes, fingered things, and asked how much we wanted. They rudely opened closed closets and chests of drawers. I would say that those areas were private, but that did not seem to faze them. I have a Bechstein piano that I grew up with. It is very dear to me. One woman asked the price; I said it was not for sale. She glared at me in anger. “You’re keeping all that’s good for yourself, aren’t you?” she sneered. The year before, we had redecorated our home. We had new drapes and pelmets in all the rooms; they were beautiful. A young couple came in and admired them. They measured, they bargained and said they would come back the next day with a van. They did. The next thing I knew, they were pulling off huge chunks of plaster from my walls, in their hurry to remove the pelmets and the drapes and take them home! We were afraid to say anything because one never knew how they would react. I felt like crying. I felt as if our homes were being raped. Another young man, perhaps twenty-something years old, took a fancy to my car. It was a Mercedes-Benz. He offered to give us traveler’s checks in US dollars for the car and all the money we made selling our household items. We accepted, but it was a bitter pill to swallow, for he kept talking about the corruption of the Shah’s régime. The banks were closed, yet the next day he came with a big sum of unsigned traveler’s checks. I wanted to ask him how he had come about them if he was not corrupt, but we needed to leave before it was too late. It was not the time to make comments.
As we walked out of my parental home for the last time, I looked at my father’s face. It was full of pain, and tears brimmed in his eyes. It was a lifetime of one man’s toil to take care of his family with dignity and love, and it was all being pulled from under his feet. It was a lifetime of family memories. It was the painful abandoning of a home.
We all moved into an apartment. We felt better being all together. Papa and Meir still went to their respective offices. All the schools were closed. Banks were open intermittently. There was a shortage of gas. There were long waits at gas stations. I would scrounge around for food, candles, and buy whatever I could. There was nothing to do. Social life disappeared. There were no more tea parties or dining with friends. One beautiful autumn day, Jessica and I went to the park. As I watched my little girl at the swings in the park playground, I wondered if the outside world knew or cared about how much our world had changed.
At night we would sit by the television waiting for the news to come on. Just as soon as it came on, there would be a blackout throughout the city. A few minutes later we heard eerie sounds in the pitch-black night. Thump! Thump! Thump! like dull drumbeats. Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Thump! Thump! Thump… We sat in the pitch dark, our eyes wide open but seeing nothing. Our hair stood at the back of our necks. Candles were at a premium; they were difficult to find. Papa devised some lighting: he filled a cup with oil and created a wick from packaging string. We waited for the lights to come back and eventually we went to bed. We would wake up hours later. The house would be ablaze with light; the television would be on. The drum-like thumping ceased, as did the anonymous voices chanting Allahu akbar. Nerves were at a breaking point.
In the parliament, cabinets were constantly being changed. Ministers would come and go; some were arrested, some were killed in prison. The lucky ones fled the country. I learned a very bitter lesson. When you are riding high, everyone wants to be your friend, but once you are down and low, it seems everyone wants to trample on you and crush you into nothing. And so it was with the Shah. World leaders who called him a friend for so many years now accused him of cruelty, of not practicing human rights. And where were these human rights afterwards? Because of the foolishness of the so-called world leaders, we now have a scourge of terrorists plaguing the world. They opened Pandora’s Box that they are not able to close. They tried to demean the Shah. It was not known then, but he was dying of cancer. They made his life miserable by the way they behaved. They tore a country asunder. People fled the country, people suffered, people died of heartbreak, families were torn apart. Parents sent their children abroad to safety while they stayed behind because they could not afford to leave. All because of what? Because people like Jimmy Carter spoke about human rights when they should have shut their mouths and minded their own business.
And so we left the country that had been good to us, that we loved, that we called home. I have been in this, my adopted country, close to forty years. My grandchildren and my dear beloved husband Peter, who passed away in 2015, were all born here. I don’t know what I think of myself as. I have been a citizen of three countries in my lifetime. When I think of home, it is always Tehran. That is where I grew up and formed lasting friendships, that shaped me into who I am. My heart is here, where my family is, the people that I love. But my home is in another country, a country I cannot go back to, except in my dreams…