 
A successful landing on safe ground

The dangerous escape from Khomeini's claws to the land of freedom Sweden

Akram Monfared Arya

Published by Akram Monfared Arya at Smashwords

Copyright©2014 Akram Monfared Arya

Swedish book published in Stockholm, 2012

English edition published in Canada, 2013

Translation from Swedish to English: Mina Boyne

ISBN 978-91-981818-0-7

### Table of Contents

Prologue

Growing up in Iran

Marriage and family life

Learning to fly

The revolution

Iran at war

Military conscription

Escape from Iran

A new chapter

Last trip to Iran

A new beginning

2011 and beyond

Author's closing remarks

Brief look at Iran's history & traditions

Other books by Akram Monfared-Arya

Connect with Akram Monfared-Arya

To my beloved children:

Ali, Mina, Reza, Madjid, Iraj,

Whose love gave me strength to chase away the shadows of fear

To my dear and beloved grandchildren Alicia and Anton,

through whom I live longer on earth

their love gave me more joy and inspiration for life,

and gave me strength to come a step closer to my goal

To the beautiful land of Sweden

that saved the lives of hundreds of thousands of

Iranians including my children's and mine

Big ironic thanks to God who was not kind to us

God took our beautiful land and everything we had from us, and

He threw us down from the top to the underworld

### When fate decides!

My dreams of a life in freedom and safety in my homeland were shattered in 1979.

I do not enjoy living as a refugee or an immigrant.

Unfortunately, when there is no other choice, when one wants to save one's children's lives and one's own life from death, when one merely wants to continue living, one escapes from misery without thinking about the potential consequences that arise in one form or another in the path of life, one after another.

I can only say that I now live the life that my destiny had determined for me.

This contradictory and unacceptable situation of being called a foreigner and not being considered a fellow citizen is understandably not easy to live with!

I was a young, active, happy, ambitious and successful woman. I was proud of myself.

A pilot, an entrepreneur, an insurance advisor and a consultant in two different, large insurance companies in my homeland, and mother of five wonderful children.

Married to a prominent and highly educated judge and lawyer with a degree of Ph.D. in law.

Daughter of an established engineer and architect.

Beautiful and strong with my head held high in a world where fear and failure were unknown feelings and unfamiliar words.

But with the revolution's extensive chaos and destructive forces my plans for future were viciously ruined by a bloody sea that pulled me down to the bottom with all my hopes for my children's future. Thus came to an end the continuation of a happy life.

My wings were clipped in a world of misery. Overnight and in an instant, I had become nothing. My dreams for the future were shattered with the so-called religious and bloody revolution.

Trembling with an immense fear that took a hold of me, I looked for a way to save my children's lives from the hell in Iran.

Although I was ultimately able to save my children's lives, I, sadly, lost many other things that can never be replaced. I lost my husband, my family, my assets, and, worst of all, I lost my country, my identity, and my career. All at once, I was called a foreigner in a country so utterly foreign to me, Sweden. I was so far away from my own country, something that I had wished neither for me nor for my children; that is, to live under such conditions in a foreign country.

Ironically, my beautiful homeland Iran, wherein I was born and raised, gave me everything from the very moment of my birth, and it sadly took all of that back later on in life. Who am I now? What have I done wrong? Why am I being punished?

When I came to Sweden in 1985, I was a broken woman who was tired, unhappy, alone, and almost empty handed. My baggage was full of memories and pride over my background, which could not help me in any shape or form to continue living the same life I had before. All of a sudden, I was nothing more than a pathetic foreigner in everyone's eyes. A poor, single mother who did not know the language and did not know anything in that new country, Sweden.

Given the huge downfall, I had no time to sit and wallow in self-pity. I did not want to look back and just feel sorry for myself. I had a grave duty and many tasks ahead of me: I had to raise my children well as I had always intended.

At daytime, I did not have time to even cry and let the tears wash away the pain in my heart. At night time, however, after the kids were in bed and I was alone, I would cry myself to sleep. I could allow myself to cry in private and let the tears run endlessly down my dry cheeks like a waterfall, but not in front of my children or anyone else. I found life to be a never-ending, bitter struggle for the sole purpose of survival and nothing else. I felt a deep hatred toward the mullahs who ruined my country and our lives, toward those despicable and rebellious people from the worst social classes who lacked in morality, and whose mob mentality devastated our lives and, worst of all, our country.

Fundamentalism and fanaticism halted the country's progress and success, took away freedom and rights, and wiped out more than 2500 years of history of civilization and culture by reverting back 1400 years to the time of Islamic barbarism.

The defiant people were apparently deaf and blind. They could not hear, see, or understand how the whole population, the nation, and centuries of history are being annihilated. People who, without the awareness and knowledge of the religion's ruthlessness, wanted to capture and dethrone the King (Shah) in order to hand over the power to an insensible, bloodthirsty, and illiterate Mullah (Khomeini). By Shah's order, Khomeini had lived in exile in Iraq for fifteen years. Khomeini himself commented openly and shamelessly that he felt nothing as he was returning to the country.

Then everyone understood that he just wanted to avenge and destroy the country at the behest of his masters, the world powers.

The state of my children's lives as well as mine resembled a ship caught in a horrifying, stormy, and bloody sea of revolution, threatened by sharks and high tides. The ship's captain, the children's father, died whereby, we came ever so closer to be washed up at sea. The only way to save my children's lives was to grab the only line that was thrown to me, that is, to trust a total stranger, a smuggler, which I did apprehensively with the hopes that taking such risk could save the lives of my children from that hell, from war, torture, imprisonment and ultimately death. My children had in fact no future in their own country.

We clung on to the line without knowing where it would take us. Now my goslings were on the run from a stormy sea. The beacon from a distant light-house guided us to a calm and peaceful shore in a completely unfamiliar country on the other side of the world, Sweden.

When I came to Sweden, I started out on my own and from scratch; a single mother with four young sons, and a daughter whose fate was unknown and uncertain. She went alone from one country to another, all the while, trying to join her mother and her brothers. But, she hit a dead-end at every turn and eventually, she ended up in Canada. A young and beautiful eighteen-year-old girl was forced to live alone and far away from her family. Fate wanted her to build her future without anyone's help. Against all odds, the looming fiasco turned into success for her. Gradually, she was able to break the downward spell.

Now I was a lone captain at the helm in an unknown country, Sweden. Now I had to do my very best to land properly. I could not afford to be afraid of the head or the side-winds. I did not want to waste a minute to mourn, or to reflect on the misgivings that wrecked our country and our lives, or to think about the flames that burned down all our dreams to ashes.

Now, I had my children to take care of. Now, I had to be a good example and sound advisor for my own children. With so much life experience that I had gained at an early and young age, and with all my skills in dealing with life's adversities, I did not allow myself to search in vain in the depth of darkness.

Without help from anyone and without support from anywhere in a completely foreign country called Sweden, where I had no knowledge of the labour market and policies, I started working in a Småland bakery packaging bread at night.

Those wonderfully, sweet-smelling, and freshly baked breads with a fresh taste that people enjoy at their breakfast time or lunch.

It did not take long before I stopped working the night shift when I felt like a night owl in those dark, damp, foul yeast-smelling, and narrow corridors in that bakery. It was only two months of sleepless nights that dragged on, but nonetheless, it went as it went. We had to package the hot loaves that were taken straight from the oven on to the band. There, we were not even allowed to talk with colleagues, or ask a job-related question. The foreman, who had a heavy deep voice and was brusque, would pound his fist on the table hard and shout, "Do not talk! Keep working." I felt exactly like being in an interrogation room by the revolutionary guards who do not allow suspects close their eyes; hence torturing them by means of sleep deprivation until they confess their sins. He was a heavy man with red, curly hair who had strange looks. No one liked him. No one liked being around him, not because of the way he looked, but because of his contemptuous attitude toward the workers. I guess he could not understand that, or he simply did not want to change his rowdy behaviour.

Now, I had worked there in my new country and had earned the right to borrow from the bank to invest in purchasing a pizzeria. Life's irony: the pilot who baked pizza. It was entirely fine. I wanted to stand on my own feet. I was independent and could never let anyone else control my life. I was too proud of my background to ask for help.

It lasted only nine months, much like a pregnancy term, to run the little restaurant by myself and keep the wheels turning. I often got help from my sons though. They came after school to help their poor, little, tired mother.

I felt like a seed that with strong winds rolled in the air between the mountains and valleys, fell and fell a bit more until it finally landed on the Swedish soil. The air filled with solitude in a miserable life full of longings, cold and dark winters, snowy and slippery grounds, thick, black clouds, rain, and cold and damp weather did not scare me at all. On the contrary, those things that could have had negative effects and could bring one's spirits down made me try to spread my roots in the ground, raise my head up again, and stand on my feet. I had to open my eyes to a completely different life with a completely new perspective.

Khomeini destroyed Iranians' lives like plants that are cut down to their roots, but now we bloom again in small plant pots at the windows in different countries. Nothing was like my then rainbow-coloured life in a completely clear, blue sky. Beautiful, multi-coloured, fragrant flowers, the greenery, the high fountain in our garden, the new model cars and the big, beautiful house; they all belonged to my past. Now, it was all about buses and a small rental apartment with three rooms, which was in bad shape and needed renovation, in Oxnehaga, an area between Huskvarna and Jönköping. The sky was empty of rainbows; instead, it was full of grey and thick clouds. My tears kept rolling down and landing at my feet; my head was heavy, filled with many thoughts that were not easy to think about. A thousand times I asked myself why I had fallen into such awful and harsh situation. Whose fault was it? Was it caused by the King (Shah), poverty, people's illiteracy, ignorance, lack of knowledge, faith, the country's natural resources, minerals, oil, gas, the meddling of the Western policy makers, the world's greed to take everything that rightly belonged to us, or the wretched fate? Who had betrayed or deceived us? Intellectuals and academics who stood side by side the religious people on the streets, Communists, Mujahedeen or dissenting politicians? Unfortunately to this date, I have not been given any sensible answers to my questions.

For years, I tried to write this book, but getting chocked with tears every time, I had to walk away from my computer, turn it off and stop writing.

Slowly but surely, I got the courage. The grief, the sleepless nights, a sea of tear-drops, and feelings of longing had been too many and too much. But now that I put all that mourning behind me, I feel free and invigorated. The taste of loneliness, longing, and setbacks is bitter; neither I nor anyone else would like to have to taste it. If life can go on for everyone, why not for me?

What is done is done; unfortunately, no one can turn back the time and give me everything that I lost over thirty years ago (i.e., 1979). Even though I feel free from all that misery, the feelings of nostalgia and longings are always there. I am labelled a foreigner for the rest of my life. Isn't it really heartbreaking to be a citizen of two countries and yet have no country?

### May 2000

The phone's handset felt like ice in my hand. I went completely out of my mind for a few minutes that seemed like an eternity. Time stood still and I could not hear a single word. I was in shock. I did not know where I was. It did not feel like I was in my home. My room looked unfamiliar to me. I felt dizzy at the turn of recent event. My heart stopped pounding for a second and in the next second, it started to palpitate. Tears began to flow incessantly. My face was soaked with tears. Oh, my God, Oh, my God, this could not be true. I could not believe my ears. No it was not true. I was completely beside myself. My heart dropped.

I sank into a chair and began to sob, quietly at first and then, crying out loud. My face was flaming red, I could not stop crying, and my shoulders were shaking. My grief knew no bounds.

My life and my dreams were shattered like a crystal bowl that breaks into pieces and gets scattered all over the floor. The room began to spin and it seemed like I was in a tornado. How could it be? Why was this happening to me? Why was destiny fighting with me all the time? How could I take this? How could I accept that once more I had lost a near and dear person in my life? My mother was gone?! She was gone and buried! The news of her death was a massive shock, and I knew that there was no chance for me to meet her, or at least talk to her on the phone in this life. It was hard for me to collect my thoughts, I just kept crying as did my sister at the other end of the telephone with eight thousand kilometres distance between Sweden and my homeland, Iran, far, far away from me and my everyday life. No it was not true. Based on our last call, I knew that she had not been feeling well lately. But no one thought she would die from being just a little tired as she put it. I would usually call her every three weeks or once a month and talk to her. But toward the end, I had an uneasy feeling inside me that prompted me to call her a little earlier and more often. I am glad I went by my instinct. When I feel terribly stressed, get nervous, and become restless and impatient, I know something awful is about to happen. In addition, I get horrible nightmares that speak to me and wake me up shaking and sweating in the middle of the night and alert me of an impending danger or a tragic event. I see these awful events in my nightmares, which rob me of my sleep and leave me startled and sweating. They make me frightened. Many sleepless nights, I have paced back and forth in my bedroom all night long, worrying about what may come. My mother was surprised. Puzzled and concerned, she asked me if anything had happened that had made me call her earlier than usual. "No Mom," I said, "I just felt like calling; I wanted to hear your voice and see how you feel." I did not dare tell her about my nightmares about her. I could not very well tell her that I see my father in my nightmares as he comes home to her and packs her bags and takes her on a trip she always wanted to go in all the years that I had been away from her. He comes to take her to Sweden to see me. I also did not tell her how delighted I was in my dreams when they came to visit us at my home in Husby, a suburb north of Stockholm. I did not say to her that I wake up at night with heart palpitations, trembling with fear, sitting up in my bed, feeling frozen, wrapping the blanket around my body, worrying about what may happen to her while mumbling to myself "God please keep my Mom safe." No, I did not want to tell her about my horrible nightmares. Instead, I just asked her, "How are you Mom?" As usual, she began to complain about her health, her heart, and her swollen leg. She went on to say that she also slept too much and did not have as much energy as she once did. How foolish of me for not taking her words seriously and rather, advising her to keep busy with things that might interest her, and to stop complaining and sleeping too much.

My advice to her was, "Pick up a hobby Mom and keep yourself busy! Do not think about your aches and pain! They are not that serious. At your age, it is not unusual to feel discomfort now and again." My mother was 72 years old. It was silly or maybe selfish of me to preach to her and give her advice on what to do and not to do. At the end, I asked her, "What can I do for you? Do you need any special medication that is not available in Iran that I can send to you? Or if you want, I can send you an invitation so that you can get a visa and come to Sweden to visit me and my children whom you have not seen for sixteen years." "No," she said; of course, this was simply her way of assuring me that she did not need anything. A trip to Sweden was surely impossible for her to consider.

"No," she said; "unfortunately, I cannot travel. You have no idea how weak I am, I cannot manage. All I want is for you to be well and happy. Give my love to the kids." It was always the same answer I got from her. But this time, the conversation ended with a new phrase. It felt strange that with a certain tone in her voice she begged my forgiveness. She said, "Forgive me if I was not a good mother to you. That I did not come to visit you in so many years." Then I burst into tears and said, "Oh, Mom what are you saying? Why are you talking like this? Why should I forgive you? You were the kindest mother in the world and I love you." It was a difficult moment, I did not know whether to cry or to use humour with her so as to cheer her up and get her thoughts away from my father's passing. I could not believe how anxiously she wanted to join her beloved husband, my father, and how much she missed him. Life after my father, her lifetime partner of fifty-five years, seemed to be meaningless for her. She felt alone and abandoned. I could not believe how much she longed to meet him in life after death. May 1985 was the last time we met. When my youngest son of eleven-years-old and I escaped from Iran, my mother told me, "You sent all your kids away and I know I am not going to see them again. And now, you are leaving the country for good without thinking about me and how much I will miss you." I replied sympathetically, "Mom, you have my Dad, your other children, and other family members around you. But my poor children are alone in a totally strange country, in Sweden. They do need me. It is my responsibility to take care of them and be with them in these hard times of transition until they settle down in Sweden. You look after yourself and rest assured that I will come back to visit." Now, she was gone and all my dreams and hopes to see her no longer existed; they got buried with her passing. The Iranian revolution, Khomeini, and his damn supporters destroyed not only my family's life but the lives of forty million Iranians. I try to forget everything that happened to us, but I still cannot forgive the people for their idiotic, senseless actions.

The conversation between my sister and me ended with her saying, "Take care of yourself and try to cope, that's life, we only live a short time on earth. She will never come back. She always thought about you and your children! She always prayed that you would be well and happy. Live your life as best you can and think about your health too!"

My sister was quite right, but I could not find any comfort in that. My sister was with mother all her life; she was with mother in her last minutes; she shared her joys and sadness with her. My sister is seventeen years younger than me, and she was the apple of my mother's eye. What did I get? Nothing. My mother gave me up so that I could succeed in my life. However, my little sister has her husband, her children, and a whole family around her; she can visit mother's grave, and get all the support she needs from everyone around her. Who do I have around me? Who will support me in my time of sadness? How often can I visit her grave?

I felt extremely hurt and abandoned. I sat alone in my room, deep in thoughts. Pages upon pages of my life story began to emerge and take shape in my head. It was like watching a movie. My recollections and memories of my life started to appear in front of my eyes.

Time

The time, I envy

with each second

I am approaching death;

Time, you last forever

as long as the world lasts

but one day, there is no longer me.

Have you not ever seen the sunrise over the ocean,

or admired stars, mountains and valleys?!

You have experience of being in

life's goodness, life's evils

moments of joy, sorrowful days

victories and defeats

You who counts all my sad moments

without getting tired

you saw me crying at birth,

heard my childhood laughter

Do you remember my teenage days?

which was only love,

friendship and shimmering maturity

Then I felt a mixture of

fear and anticipation to meet my sweetheart

and I appealed to

You time, you are forever lasting

Now in my older days,

I no longer wait

I also want to be forever

but oh you do not allow it

(Translated version of the poem written originally in Swedish)

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### 15 July 1946

I was born on a hot, sunny day on the twenty fourth of the first summer month (Tir 1325) corresponding to 15 July 1946.

I was the first born child of my mother, but for my father, I was the fourth child and third daughter. My father had another wife than my mother. At that time, bigamy or polygamy was allowed.

My father was not happy with his first wife with whom he had two children, and whom he had divorced twice. So when it came to marrying my mother, he knew that this time it was going to work as they were truly in love. When my father was eighteen years old and had completed his secondary education, he had left his hometown of Tabriz in the province of Azerbaijan in the northwest of Iran, where the spoken language is Turkish.

He had gone to Moscow to study at university there. Then he had gone to Istanbul to continue his studies until he graduated as an architect. When he came back to Iran, he started working in different parts of Iran. He participated in the building of the first and the famous railway bridge Abbass Abad which linked the southern parts of Iran to the Caspian Sea in north through Alborz Mountains. It was, in effect, Germany that had contracts with Reza Shah to build that vital infrastructure. At the time, Iran was very poor.

The country's wealth—the oil wells—was hidden deep beneath the ground. It was only England that had exclusive rights to use the oil. England signed a contract with the Qajar dynasty to extract the oil for its own use for the duration of one hundred years, thus depriving Iran from benefiting from its own rich natural resources that were also the country's greatest asset. The Qajar dynasty left behind an underdeveloped country without electricity and drinking water, where people suffered from widespread poverty, epidemics, terminal and incurable diseases, and unemployment. The country lacked the most necessary and basic infrastructures such as, sewage treatment plants, and water purification plants. In all those run-down and crumbling houses that were built with mud bricks or burnt clay, there was only one water reservoir which was filled with unsanitary running water from the narrow and dirty streams in all major and minor streets. A new legislation which came into effect under Reza Shah's reign made it mandatory for people to pay the equivalent of a penny tax on the purchase of sugar so as to give the state the much needed revenue to build the country, and to run the longest railway track between the southern and northern Iran. Reza Shah was an untrained soldier who came from a poor farming, rural community. Despite his humble beginnings, he was a competent and skilful man who had Iran's best interest at heart. He was ambitious and had big dreams for the country's future. One of his greatest accomplishments was to ban the wearing of the veil for women. In addition, he gave women the right to study at colleges and universities. As a sovereign, he took over the executive power and became the sole decision-maker. During the Qajar dynasty, Iran was almost split between a number of smaller powers. Each province had a landlord or ruler for itself and a serfdom. The system was abolished by Reza Shah and ultimately his son Mohammed Reza Shah. All across the country, security was non-existent, people were afraid to travel to other cities by horse or horse-carriages at night. The roads were not safe as there were bandits everywhere, and caravans were often targeted and ambushed by the bandits and robbers. There was also not a single paved road in the entire country. Reza Shah tried to change the system, and began to build a safe country. It was not easy for him to fulfill his duties. It was not just the economic setbacks and lack of finances that brought his and his people's efforts to a grinding halt; he simply was not given the time.

He did not have time to accomplish what he and the people had hoped for and dreamed about, which was to build a modern and advanced country. With the outbreak of the Second World War, the plans had to be put on hold. Although my country, Iran, was not engaged in war efforts, it did suffer hardship as a result of the war. Iran was in no position to provide financial or military support to Germany as did Japan and Italy, but its geostrategical position presented an opportunity to Germany. As a result, Reza Shah was approached and persuaded by Hitler to allow his troops to march through Iran to attack Russia. The nature of this request was identical to that made by Hitler of Sweden to allow his army to march through Sweden to attack Norway. With that agreement, however, Reza Shah dug his own grave. Consequently, Iran was subjected to further conflicts and it suffered an even greater economic hardship as a result of the war.

While my father was involved in the construction of the railway bridge Abbass Abad between Tehran and the Caspian Sea, he fell ill to malaria. As such, he was transferred to Tehran. A young, single man, who did not know anyone in Tehran, ended up staying at one of his colleagues whose family was to look after him until he could get back on his feet and go back to work. It was there that my father met his first wife. A girl in that family who was really not well-suited for him. Despite the lack of compatibility between them, he married her and had two children with her without ever feeling happy in his marriage.

My father's mother-in-law and his wife's cousins, who all liked him very much and in reality felt sorry for him, urged him to re-marry without having to divorce his first wife. Since according to the Islamic law polygamy was permitted, there was nothing wrong with having two wives. According to the Shiite law, a man can divorce the same woman twice and still marry her for, yet, a third time. However after the third divorce, that man can never marry the same woman again. In the interim, to even marry the same woman for a third time, the couple have to follow a specific procedure in that, the woman has to undergo a temporary marriage—even if only for one day—to another man, who is referred to as Mohallel (trans. intermediary), and then be divorced from that man. Then, she would have to wait three months in order to re-marry her former husband. My father's first-wife's relatives helped him find his second wife that is, my mother who, at that time, was twenty years old. A beautiful girl who lived with her parents and her only brother. My mother had simultaneously received two marriage proposals; one from a well-to-do businessman without high education, and the other from my father who was an attractive, educated man in the prime of his life. Although at the time, my father was married with two children—a five-year-old son and a one-year-old daughter—and had two prior divorces, my mother chose him and turned down the other marriage proposal. They married and lived, in a way, happy and, at times, an unhappy life together. The first wife created many problems in their lives. My father stayed in the first marriage only because his first wife was not independent and had no means to support herself financially. Moreover, with the exception of a few elderly men who needed someone to look after them, it was traditionally not common for one to marry a divorced woman since those days, a divorced woman was tended to be frowned upon. To put it bluntly, divorce was a disgrace for a woman. However in the end, after being married for a total of ten or eleven years, she finally agreed to divorce my father. She received financial support from my father as long as he lived. To everyone's surprise, she actually became a good friend of our family after getting divorced. After the divorce was finalized, my half-brother and sisters came to live with us. According to family laws in Iran, men are the ones who are granted the custody of children. Boys up to the age of 2 and girls up to the age of 7 can live with their mother; thereafter, the father has the right to take the children. An arrangement that is problematic for everyone concerned that is, the child, the step-parent, and the biological parent.

It took four years before my mother was pregnant with her first child namely, me. I was born in 1946 while my father was still married to his first wife. His first wife had also given birth to a girl only three months before I was born. My mother desperately wanted to have a child, but not a girl as her first-born. Unluckily for her, her wish did not come true as I was born instead. Therefore, I ended up being raised mostly by my father, my uncle who was still unmarried, my aunt who did not have but wanted a girl, and my grandmother. My mother was of course kind to me, but that was not the same as a genuine motherly love. My mother expected to give birth to a son, which unfortunately did not happen until eight years after my birth. She considered herself unlucky and felt embarrassed for having given birth to a girl rather than a boy first; something that she talked about frequently and openly with everyone. Shortly after my parents' marriage, my grandfather died and my grandmother and my uncle came to live with us. We lived in a big house that had a number of big and small rooms and two large cellars. One of the cellars was used as a kitchen. It had a wooden stove and stoves that worked with oil. No one could afford having an electric or gas stove at home. Running electricity was not a common feature; only a few streets in a handful of large cities had electrical lanterns that were powered by generators and for only a few hours. At home, it was kerosene lamps and lanterns in various shapes and forms that lit up houses.

Every house had a water reservoir, the filling of which was a source of entertainment for us kids. Customarily one day prior to the event, a neighbourhood would receive notice of their turn to fill the water reservoirs. People living on the same street would then get together and start cleaning narrow brooks that lied in the middle of streets and divided the streets into two parts. Then we, the children, would come out and play while the adults were busy with their chores. After dinner in the evening, everyone would open the lid of their water reservoirs to get them filled up. It was great fun for us children to come out, to stay up till late and play. Streets were so lit up as each neighbour would bring a lantern out to help see what they were doing. Each neighbour would also bring some sort of snack and drink to share with the rest of the neighbourhood.

Summer nights were wonderful to stay up till late at night and enjoy the warmth of a summer breeze. Thinking back at the fond memories of the past, life seems to have been more joyous and blissful despite the lack of modernity and advanced technology of today's life. The modern technology seems to have made us more isolated and distant from one another. Nowadays, we are content with sending e-mails or text messages to each other. We have no time to visit family and friends. There is no interaction between neighbours, no knowledge of who lives next door, and certainly no one asks a neighbour for help even in case of an emergency. In my country, we never needed to book time to go visit family and friends. One could show up spontaneously and without prior notice at someone's door and he or she was always welcomed.

Anyway, once the reservoirs were filled with water, everyone would head home to get a couple of hours of sleep before they had to get up. At dawn, one could see the unforgettable gleam of the dazzling silver full moon as it made its journey to the other side of the globe, and the gradual transformation of the velvety black darkness into light dawn brightness. The shining stars would start to fade away until they could no longer be seen. The sun, that red-orange ball of fire, was amazingly beautiful as it gracefully moved up and took its place over the horizon.

I still remember and long to experience that feeling one more time in my life. Those days, there were no apartments or high-rises in my country. Everyone lived in houses, be it their own or rented property, with little backyards that had small pools, with water-pumps, filled with gold-fishes swimming in blue-green color water. Women used the water pump to rinse their laundry or dishes after they were washed. And children used to swim in the pool to take refuge from the heat wave in summers. So it was necessary to empty and clean the pool about once a month and fill it up again from the reservoirs with water pump. Cleaning the pool was a heavy job consisting of draining it with buckets, one bucket at a time, then scrubbing it down and refilling it. In some small villages and towns, every home had a deep well that naturally provided better tasting and higher quality water.

The size of the backyard and pool were always proportional to the size of the house. Our house was a big bungalow. On three sides of the house, we had small and large rooms used as living room, bedrooms and guest room. The guest room was out-of-bound to all of us. It was nicely decorated with fine furniture and curtains and it remained locked all the time. The room was for guests only. In our tradition or culture, guests are God's gifts who bring joy and happiness with them. At times, I found no delight in the company of the so called God's gifts who came uninvited, stayed a long time, and enjoyed every fine thing that was forbidden to us. All we got as kids was the constant yelling of mothers and grandmothers to do or not to do this and that. For us kids, the only nice thing about having guests was the opportunity to run around in the yard, pick fruits from trees, and go out and play with other kids from the neighbourhood in our small and narrow street. Older kids who attended school often took advantage of their parents' preoccupation with the guests to skip their school work, but of course they had the teacher to answer to the next day.

We also had a beautiful garden full of plants, flowers, fruit trees, and an assortment of small and large flower pots. In winter, the pots were stored in the basement, and in spring and summer time, they were placed in the courtyard and around the pool. Summers were always sunny and hot, sometimes more than 40 degrees above zero; therefore, we used to keep indoors for days. We had our breakfasts and dinners out in the patio where it was cool and filled with the scent of the flowers.

My mother and grandmother were both housewives. They kept busy with household chores all day long, shopping, cooking, cleaning, washing laundry and hanging them outside on the ropes to dry. On top of that, they had to prepare for unexpected guests who would show up at lunchtime and sometimes would even stay for dinner. Late in the afternoons, my mother would water the plants, place a mat on either the grass or the benches out in the corner of the garden so that the whole family could sit down and eat dinner together. Then it was time for my father to read to us or tell us a story. Not everyone could afford a radio back then. I was almost four years old when my father bought a big square wooden radio. It worked on battery and the battery was as large as the radio itself. Once we got the radio, we would listen to news and music for a few hours in the evening.

### Summer, 1st day of Tir month i.e., June 21

In the beginning of May (the second Persian month of spring Ordibehsht), the weather starts to get warm and by end May, it gets too warm to sleep indoors. So it was common for people to sleep on their roofs under a beautiful sky and enjoy the fresh air. Nights on the rooftops were mystic and romantic. One could stay awake all night and count the stars. One could stretch one's hand and imagine touching that bright, shining moon and the stars. They seemed so close and within reach. It was enchanting to be captivated by the splendour of the galaxy, gazing at the moon, dressed in her silver-color gown, dancing away across the black sky. The heat wave begins almost in the middle of the last and third month of spring (Khordad), which is in early June. Summer holidays begin and schools are closed for almost three months. In the middle of June, when it is time for final exams, the weather is too hot and uncomfortable for students who have to wear school uniforms to go and write their tests.

Anyway after nine months of going to school, we were happy to leave school books and uniforms behind. We wanted to enjoy our freedom away from the schools' harsh discipline, and the strictness and unfriendliness of teachers, principals and vice-principals.

Back those days, the school system was completely different and it consisted of six years of elementary school, three years of secondary school and then, high school. We had to choose a field of study at high school, which was also the field we had to continue studying at university. The choices in high school were literature, natural sciences, and mathematics.

In the morning, we would line up in the school yard, listen to a few verses of the Koran, sing the national anthem, and say a prayer for the King and the country. Then we had to march to the classrooms in an orderly fashion.

It was very rare for a teacher to show a bit of kindness toward students. They were more like prison guards and we, indeed, felt like prisoners. Half the time we were scared of getting beaten up by teachers, especially mathematics teachers who were always unpleasant. A student was to be punished if he or she had done something wrong. One type of punishment was to send a student out of the classroom and have him or her stand behind the classroom door in the corridor until the lesson was over. Harsh disciplinary practices are still in force in schools in Iran. It is difficult to think of such institutions as schools where learning is meant to take place.

For me, it was amazing to learn about the school system in Sweden with its fair and moderate policies which can be easily abused by students. I still remember a horrible incident that happened to me at school when I was a child.

I started the seventh grade in a private, prestigious school which was a place many parents hoped to send their children. We had a very beautiful, attractive, and open-minded principal who in partnership with her husband owned the school. The school consisted of day-care, preschool, elementary, secondary, and high school. In addition, they ran evening classes for adults and various hobby classes. The principal's husband was also a member of parliament which made them very affluent. Despite her outer beauty, our principal happened to be a sadistic and angry woman deep down inside. She had two children, one of whom suffered from serious health issues; a tragedy that had made her lashing out at children under her care. One Thursday—the last business day of the week in Iran—she informed us that on our return to school on Saturday—the first business day of the week in Iran—we must have our hairs up and our nails cut short; otherwise, we would be sent home. I could not put my hair up as it was not long enough. So on my return to school, I was among those who were taken to her office for failure to comply with her order. She was furious that we had disobeyed her order and, without hesitation, she slapped the first two students before sending them home. When it came to my turn and before I got a chance to say anything, she raised her hand and went to hit me. I pulled my face away from her hand and protested that she had no right to hit me. Instead of my face then, her hand hit the wall and a couple of her beautiful, long nails were broken. She screamed in pain and became even more enraged. Her ego was hurt in front of the school staff and other students who were waiting in line to receive their punishment. She roared like a bear and ordered me to get my stuff, go home, and never come back. I did exactly that; went to the classroom, took my bag, and went home.

Once home, I had to face another roaring bear, my mother. She did not want to listen to any explanations although, this was all her fault to begin with. I had asked her on Friday to cut my hair, but not being that enthusiastic about anything that had to do with me, she did not get around doing it. And now she was mad at me. She could never accept her own shortcomings. Everything was my fault. She took me back to the school to talk to the principal and ask her to take me back. I was absolutely disheartened and furious that my mother blamed me, and that she begged the principal to forgive me.

After a long conversation and lots of pleading, the principal reluctantly accepted to take me back. During the final exams, she insisted to personally test me on one of the subjects so that she could fail me. This was her sadistic way of getting revenge. Our summer was ruined because I had to study for the make-up exam scheduled for the end of summer. It meant that through the whole summer we could not go away to the cottage country near Tehran as previously planned. I also got to hear my mother blame me constantly for having stood up for myself against the brutality of the principal. I believe I was justified in the way I reacted. I was happy and proud of myself despite the lack of support from my mother.

In summer, there was usually a huge demand for ice and ice-blocks because there were no air conditioning units, fridges or freezers to be had. The natural water reservoirs, which froze in winter time, provided a large supply of ice during the hot months of summer. The ice from these reservoirs, which were located outside and far away from cities, were cut and transported to the cities by travelling salesmen. The ice was used as a cooling device for perishable items and was stored in basements and cellars.

Another customary practice was for every household to exchange their old and dried bread pieces with salt. Travelling salesmen would visit different neighbourhoods every day and carry out the exchange. There were others who would come knocking on the door to buy one's old clothes. Another annual ritual was the cleaning and polishing of items made of copper such as, kettles, plates, cutlery, cups, trays and bowls.

Summer was the best and the most memorable season of the year. With its hot days and mild evenings, summer was a welcomed season by everyone. Growing up, we did travel a lot but only domestic trips across the country. At the time, travelling abroad was something that only the well-to-do could afford. Ordinary people could take delight in travelling to neighbouring towns or to the Caspian Sea beach, visiting gardens, camping, and visiting Holy Sites.

Historic cities such as Isfahan, Shiraz, Tabriz and Mashhad with their fascinating history, architecture, craft shops, handmade carpets, popular bazaars, buildings, bridges and mosques were great attractions for both local and foreign tourists.

### Autumn, 1st day of Mehr month i.e., 23 September

Schools begin on the first day of the Mehr month. It is difficult for many toddlers to have to start school for the first time after their seven years of being home with their parents. It is also difficult to say goodbye to summer.

Some parts of Iran enjoy a true four-season weather. We had four proper seasons with their unique weather patterns. The weather was not a common topic to talk about or discuss since it followed a regular, cyclic pattern. In essence, the fall season in Iran is breathtaking and very similar to that of Sweden. I have always been captivated by the beauty of this colourful season. Autumn with its vibrant and lively colours is like a painting to me. It is truly a celebration of colours. I have written the majority of my romantic poems, and painted most of my colour paintings in the fall.

In the first two months of autumn, the weather is still warm and sunny. It is in the third month that the last leaves with their copper red colours fall down from the trees, and the rain begins to fall. The cold weather draws in gradually and signals the arrival of the cold winter.

When I was a child, we had no fridge or freezer so, people had to do shopping on a daily basis. Early in the morning, the farmers would go around town with large containers full of fresh milk, cream, cheese, butter and yogurt, which used to be transported on their bikes, and sell them before they went sour.

With autumn's arrival and with children being away at school, women got busy working hard and long hours to prepare for the coming winter. They had to buy all sorts of fruit, vegetable and herb that they could dry and store them away for use over the winter. They also used to make home-made vinegar, lemon juice, tomato paste and jam. It was an arduous work which had major impact on women's overall health. The shortage of skilled doctors and medical expertise did not make things easier. It was common for people to use herbal medicine. My grandmother ate lots of garlic and drank tea with ginger, mint, or cinnamon to help ease her chronic pain.

At that time, we had to buy lots of coal and pulverized coal to store at home for use in winter time. Coal was mostly used in our traditional heating unit called Korsi. I remember once seeing my grandmother making coal balls from coal powder. I asked her why she would go through the trouble, and she replied that the coal balls would take longer to burn so, it was more economical. Sometimes when life gets too difficult for me, I tend to think that my ancestors lived a better, easier, healthier and less hectic life than I have in this modern era of technology. Despite all the limitations, they never had to worry about power outages or being without water. Telephones, cell phones, cars, traffic, none of that existed back then. However, natural disasters were inevitable and hard to deal with then as they are today. Just in recent history, the volcano eruption in Iceland that happened in 2012, wreaked havoc on air travel throughout Europe. On the whole, earthquakes, tsunamis and torrential rain leave behind so much death and destruction in their path. It is unfortunate that there are some places in Iran that are extremely vulnerable to earthquakes. I remember how in a single earthquake in Iran almost 20,000 people lost their lives at once. Due to poor infrastructure, an earthquake could wipe out an entire village at any given time.

When I reflect on the sub-standard living conditions back then, I thank my lucky star that I do not need to break any ice in a small pool to wash dishes or do laundry; that I do not have to wash my face early in the morning in a freezing cold and non-potable water. Life was certainly hard for everyone both grown-ups and children, but being a kid, we did not have to grapple with and worry about issues like wide-spread epidemic diseases, child mortality rate due to lack of hygiene, nutrition and medicine, poverty, homelessness and so forth. As children, we had no idea what the word "sanction" meant, which was imposed on the country after the Second World War, and what its ramifications were for the country. We also had no understanding of politics and how the Western countries, people in power, and our own country's senior-ranking politicians were benefiting from Iran. Shielded by childhood innocence, we just went on playing, having fun and enjoying being a child. In a wealthy country, many lived and are still living in extreme poverty.

### Winter, 1st day of Day month i.e., 22 December

The 22nd of December was and still is a traditional day of celebration in Persia. It marks the first day of winter and the longest night of the year, referred to as Yalda. Family members get together to celebrate the event. Along with serving a special meal, guests enjoy an assortment of fruits, nuts, pastry and fresh dates. The night (Yalda) is traditionally very important to the Iranian people.

After dinner, various activities take place such as, listening to music, singing, playing in a poetry contest, or playing board, cards, and chess. It was also customary to read poems from Hafez, one of Iran's greatest and most celebrated poets. It was equally a wonderful night for children as they played, laughed, and stayed up till late at night.

Although a short season, winters were quite cold and dry. The beauty of snow tended to fade away in light of the difficulties faced in travelling the icy roads covered in snow. Notwithstanding the picturesque landscape of the snow-covered mountain tops and trees, winter's freezing cold weather was just as irritating as the heat wave of summers. Winter was fun for children, however, especially when they got to stay home due to cancellation of classes as a result of bad weather. It was also great for those interested in skiing, hiking, or mountain climbing.

In a rich country like Iran with all its natural resources, the overall standard of living could have been elevated, had the people been the beneficiaries of the resources of their own country. It is appalling when a king or a head of state makes trade concessions with other countries without due regard for the welfare of his or her nation for the sole purpose of staying in power. The incompetent, self-indulgent, and despotic Qajar Sultans ruled Iran for 200 years. During their reign, large parts of northern Iran were handed over to Russia, and the control of three islands in the Persian Gulf (Bahrain, Abo Musa, Tonbe Kochak and Tonbe Bozorg) as well as the rights to the oil wells in southern Iran were transferred to England. Persia was not officially a colony of any country; yet, it was unofficially under the control of many countries. Persian constitution was written by the French, who also established the Iranian gendarmerie and police. As well, at some point, Belgium, Portugal and other European countries also enjoyed exerting influence over Iran.

During the Qajar era, Persia was, for the most part, divided between Russia and England. Russia ruled the northern parts of Persia and England the southern parts. Equally troubling was England's exclusive rights to the oil fields in the South for a period of one hundred years, which left the country with no claims to its own natural resources. In turn, the Qajar dynasty enjoyed remaining in power for many years to come. While the Qajars were busy lining their own pockets and living in the lap of luxury, people grappled with poverty and lived a life of misery.

The Qajar dynasty was finally brought to an end by a military coup led by Reza Shah, the Shah's father, about a hundred years ago. He strove to build Iran from the ground up, and rid the country from massive poverty. Before long however, his work was abruptly interrupted at the outbreak of WWII. I was eight years old when England's one-hundred-year, termed contract with Iran came to pass whereby, Iran regained control over its oil wells in the South. As of that point, the country started to flourish and move forward.

But until then, winters were cumbersome as people had to use coal and wood in order to survive the harsh, cold weather. In every household, there was a large, square table with short legs called korsi which was placed in the middle of the room. Thick mattresses and long and round shaped pillows called mottacka were placed around the table and against the wall. Korsi was covered with a large, thick and beautiful quilt that was sewn with delicate motifs.

There were no ready-made mattresses, pillows and blankets. One had to purchase cotton and fabric, be it expensive and delicate fabric or satin, or simple and cheap fabric, and take them to specialty stores to get them made. Those who knew how to make beddings were commonly referred to as Lahafdooz, which means 'the one who sews quilts'. There were also a group of these craftsmen who could not afford their own stores and as such, they would come around neighbourhoods and offer their services on site.

It was women's responsibility to look after house chores including, overseeing and assisting the process of making the beddings. First, they had to sew large pillow cases which were then filled with treated cotton done up by craftsmen. Then, mattresses and blankets were made. All pillows were made at home and were filled with feathers, which was not an easy task since the feathers had to be cleaned, washed and dried. Then, different shape and form pillow cases, which were sewn beforehand, were stuffed with feathers.

The craftsman's work and the tools he used to perform his job were very interesting especially for us kids. He seemed like a magician who sat in a corner of the yard with a pile of cotton balls and started processing them with those strange looking tools, which consisted of a long curved piece of wood with strong and long strings. Another piece of wooden tool used in the process resembled a short baseball bat. He would hit hard on the string to clean and release the fibres, and then fill the sewn bags with them. Once the bags were filled with fluffy cotton, he would finish the job by sewing different motifs such as flowers or birds on them. Although they lacked formal education, and perhaps could not even read or write, they were talented artists and had great craftsmanship. Sometimes, it took them a full day to sew a client's mattresses and blankets, a type of service that was required once a year.

To keep the heat going all day long under the Korsi, burning coal was poured into a round shaped iron bowl that was placed on a big copper tray under the Korsi. The risk of carbon monoxide poisoning was great. It was not unusual that people, who slept under the Korsi especially over night, would fall ill, or in extreme cases die of the carbon monoxide poisoning. The Korsi was so big that the whole family could sit around it in order to eat or sleep at night. Even if it was fun to gather around the Korsi, it was surely tiresome to live like that for almost three months.

### The transition

I was seven years old and I had to start school. The school was on the other side of the main street. It was not safe to cross the street alone so, my mother had to follow me every day to and from school. We went to school six days a week (from Saturday to Thursday) from eight in the morning to four in the afternoon, and we had one-hour lunch break during which we could go home. We were off on Fridays; after all, Fridays are holy days in my country.

Devout Muslims usually go to mosques to attend the Friday prayers. My grandmother was a true believer and prayed three times a day, all year round, at mosque. Shi'a Muslims pray three times a day, either at home or at mosque. Morning prayer takes place before sunrise, noon prayer occurs exactly at twelve o'clock, and evening prayer is carried out after sunset. At times, my grandmother took me to the mosque in the hope that I would learn about religion and become a true believer, something that she fortunately failed to accomplish. Contrary to her wishes, I always stayed away from religion and instead, chose to focus on humanity.

During the month of Ramadan, all Muslims throughout the world perform a common set of tasks namely, fasting, praying, and abstaining from eating and drinking every day of the month. Shi'a Muslims have two more holy months of mourning (Muharram and Safar). According to religious beliefs, 1400 years ago, the Prophet's grandson, Imam Hussein, and 75 people consisting of his followers, family members, and children were martyred in a war in Karbala on the tenth day of the month of Muharram. What distinguishes Shi'as from Sunnis is that the Shi'as believe that the Prophet's son-in-law, Ali, and his children and grandchildren are the Prophet's successor. However, Sunni Muslims believe that Ali is the fourth Caliph after the Prophet.

That is the reason for Shi'as mourning during those two months. The religious ceremonies begin on the first day of Muharram with masses gathering at mosques. First, a mullah recites the historical events of that day and despite the familiarity of people with the subject, they listen attentively to the narrative, time after time. Then, a mourning procession gets underway during which men flagellate themselves by beating on their torsos, heads, and backs with a handle that has a number of short iron chains hanging from one end as a show of grief. Day nine (Tasoa) and ten (Ashoora) are public holidays whereby, large crowds take part in numerous religious processions.

During the first ten days of the month, food is laid out for the mourners at all the mosques and other specific premises. Meals are also provided to the masses by those who are financially well-off and have made a vow to distribute food charitably.

It was exactly during the same period of time in 1963 that Khomeini, for the first time, exploited the situation to motivate the fundamentalists to rise up against the Shah.

That day, what started as a religious ceremony suddenly tuned in to a bloodbath. Demonstrators armed with sticks attacked the innocent people and broke shops' windows and glasses. The protest was ended by military intervention and Khomeini and his supporters were subsequently arrested.

I was the only child for eight years before my mother was pregnant. At the time, I was in grade one, and I had no idea how my life was about to change forever. First, my brother was born, the long awaited son that my mother so desperately hoped for. As of the birth of my brother, whom I called the crown prince, I lost even those few and far in between moments of being held in my mother's arms. Then, the situation went from bad to worse by what came next.

Subsequent to my father's divorce from his first wife, and pursuant to the divorce decree, my half sisters had to move in with us. This living arrangement was just as upsetting to them as it was to me. It was particularly hard for us children to cope with the changes in our lives, and to try to get along with one another. Emotionally, life became exacting and tiresome for all of us involved, even for my parents. My mother did not get a chance to enjoy spending time with her crown prince since she was all of a sudden entrusted with the added responsibility of raising two grown up and unruly step-daughters. There was no telling if things were ever going to get back to normal again.

My half sisters were angry over being separated from their own mother and they were understandably, having a hard time adapting to the new setting. I was also overwhelmed with anxiety and wondered what impact this would have on my life, and whether we could ever get along with each other.

I could not understand why my life had to be turned upside down. The stable and comfortable living environment that I grew up in, up to that point, was now being threatened. It was like being hit by an earthquake or tornado that destroys everything in its path. From then on, peace and calm were gone forever and replaced by endless struggle.

They got on my nerves, and I felt helpless in this new living environment; to live with two complete strangers who were my so-called half sisters under one roof. Now I had two sisters and a little brother in the same house, where I used to be the only child for eight years. My oldest half sister was five years older than I, while the second one was three months older than I. The oldest half sister was calm and collected, thus she gradually became my mother's favourite which was hard for me to accept. All my life, I dealt with my mother's rejections, and no matter how hard I tried, I could never win her heart. I used to ask myself, "Is it me who is her child or is it my half-sister?" Nevertheless, my mother simply chose her step-daughter over her own daughter. Gradually, their relationship became stronger with every passing year, and they became closer and remained so throughout my mother's life.

Now, there was three of us girls in the same house and, regardless of the age difference between us, we lived like triplets. Everything that was bought for us had to be identical; our clothes, shoes, and school supplies had to be all the same color and style. My life became gloomy and dark; I stopped asking for things completely, and never spoke of what I wanted or wished for. I refused to make any requests, partly, because whatever I wanted had to be agreed upon by all of us, and partly, because my mother never listened to me. It was always she who decided how I should think, feel, or live. Nothing about me was of any interest to her. My own mother was the least supportive of all when it came to me. My dreams, future and happiness had no meanings for her. To her, I was probably the black sheep of the family since it was my fault that I had become a girl rather than a boy! It took forever for me to put all of that behind me, and to be able to forgive her for everything she did to me. It is easy to forgive but not easy to forget.

However, my father loved me more than all of his other children; he believed in me, in my talents, my strength and my ability to accomplish my goals. His love and support helped me live a healthy life filled with aspirations, made me stand on my own feet, and become stronger than I ever thought I could be. Too bad, he had to be at work during the day, and could not be there in those moments that I was sad or needed help. As a result, I grew closer to my grandmother, or rightly put, I found her to be the one who cared. Perhaps as a way of compensating, my grandmother also took it upon herself to protect me and make me feel safe, something that I was clearly not getting from my own mother. I also got much love and attention from my aunt until she gave birth to her first daughter, and from my uncle who lived with us in the same house up until two years after he was married. My mother never let me do what I wanted to do; all I could do was to shrug my shoulders and go out to play alone or with my friends. I was criticized for having "bad manners," but as long as I could be left alone, the hurtful sayings did not bother me. Ironically enough, to have bad manners, as I used to be told, turned out to be my greatest asset and still is. Since we three sisters went to the same school, it was no longer necessary for my mother to take me to school. So, it was possible for her to stay home with her son and her mother.

In grade one, I had an angel as my teacher. Since I was well behaved, courteous, polite, and nice to her and all the staff, I was well liked by them all. The attention from school staff toward me aroused great jealousy among my classmates and made me a target of their abuse. Sadly, facing envy is something that I have had to deal with all my life. But I cannot change my way of life, not to be polite, friendly, or kind just because people, especially women around me, cannot stand me and feel jealous of me.

It is unfortunate that they find it hard that others pay attention to me, and as a result of that, they feel left out. However, I think they should blame their own lack of confidence and low self-esteem, not me. One cannot blame others for feelings of insecurity.

After the Second World War ended and the King's son came to power, a period of complete anarchy started in the country. Iran was far from being stable. In 1941, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi became Shah (Iranian royal title) at the age of 20. He took the throne after his father with some support from Britain and the Soviet Union. Those two countries were apprehensive about Reza Shah's relationship with Germany, a concern that later became problematic for even the newly crowned, young Shah. Several times he received assistance from abroad to maintain or strengthen his position in power. In 1951, Mohammad Mossadeq, who was one of the Qajar dynasty's princes, became the prime minister. He immediately came into conflict with Shah. Mossadeq wanted to eradicate poverty by nationalizing the British-owned oil company. By so doing, it was anticipated that the sale of oil would generate a source of revenue for Iran itself. But the British responded with a trade boycott that stifled Mossadeq's opposition. Iran ended up in a crisis and as a result of the power struggle with Mossadeq, Shah was forced to flee the country. But once again, he sought foreign assistance and in 1953, he returned to the country after a US-backed military coup. Mossadeq was thrown in prison and later on, he was sent into exile to his hometown (Ahmad Abad); subsequently, an international group of companies (in which the U.S. also had business interest) took over the oil production. I used to hear about these in the conversations everywhere, at home, at our neighbours, and on the radio.

People had different opinions about what was going on in the country and its chaotic state of affairs. I remember seeing a demonstration and how it was. In the morning when my mother took me to school, I saw hundreds of trucks full of Mossadeq's supporters or sympathizers. They looked furious and they shouted slogans against Shah. They wanted Mossadeq to be released from prison and reinstated in his post again.

On the way to school, I asked my mother what was going on. I was curious to find out what they were saying and what they wanted. She told me not to think about it; that they did not know themselves what they wanted either. In the afternoon on the way home, we came across another scene. This time, the protesters were shouting slogans against Mossadeq and were saying, "Long live Shah. Death to Mossadeq." I was confused and did not know what to make of the conflicting events that I witnessed on the same day. Again, I asked my mother what the demonstration was about. In the morning, we heard one thing and now something else. She responded that they had no clue what they were saying, or why they were saying it. She went further to say, "They had been paid to come out and scream. Do not worry about it, this will pass and everything will be all right soon." It was like my mother said. The demonstration took no more than a day; a day which ended with a group of protesters storming into Mossadeq's residence and raiding his home. It is disastrous for a country when its people waver on their political views, changing their minds within a few hours and with a few dollars handed out by the CIA.

The Cold War gave Shah the golden opportunity to further secure his position. He was a reliable ally of the Western World in a region that was in constant turmoil. For instance in 1955, the Baghdad Pact came into effect which was a defence agreement between Iraq, Iran, Pakistan, Britain, and Turkey. The United States, while not a direct party to this pact, did provide Iran, among others, with military and economic aid.

In the evening, I did not give much thought to the events I saw during the day. I do not even remember what my thoughts were that night. I sat and read the newspaper quietly, and did not listen to the boring conversations that went on around me. The days passed, one after another, and the country was still unstable. Iranian communist extremists called Tudehi created problems for the country. A high-ranking member of the communist extremists named Pishevary caused agitation in the province of Azerbaijan, calling for the separation of Azerbaijan from Iran and its annexation to Russia. His actions led the country to a civil war. The unrest spread to the whole country. We could not afford to get into a war; the country was in an awful financial state. Thankfully, the war did not last long. The military under Shah's leadership brought stability back to Azerbaijan and tranquility to the rest of the country.

Pishevary and his army lost the war and fled to Russia. Although he left the country, he and his supporters never left the country alone. In the long-run, they helped Khomeini to come to power, believing that they would also be allowed to play a part in the new regime. Little they knew, Khomeini was just going to use them to his own advantage and secure his own interests. The work toward the development of the country was being carried out on a fast pace as was the corruption, which triggered a number of protests from many quarters i.e., the communists and the religious groups in the form of successful and unsuccessful attacks directed particularly against Shah and the country's senior politicians and the Prime Minister.

The Shah of Iran wanted to enter the international arena as a viable player. His life as a king had begun with many ups and downs. He went through a divorce with his first wife, an Egyptian princess, although they had a daughter together. Shortly thereafter, he re-married for the second time and for political reasons. His second wife, Soraya, was the daughter of one of Shah's staunch opponents. The second marriage did not last long either since Soraya could not become pregnant and the country needed a crown prince. That was the reason he had to divorce the love of his life. Soraya was very beautiful and everyone admired her beauty. Also during the same time period, he buried his father, Reza Shah, who lived in exile in Johannesburg with his wife and daughters. He died just a few years after the end of World War II. His memorial service was conducted as a state funeral. It did not take long after losing his father that Shah also lost his only true and younger brother in a plane crash. During this phase of his life, Shah was a young, inexperienced, and helpless king in a ruined country. He had more enemies than friends. The worst part was that his family, especially his twin sister and one of his half brothers were his greatest enemies throughout his entire life.

Despite all the setbacks, Shah managed to ultimately get back on his feet and take control of the country, albeit with the help of the United States. It was as of that point that the work toward the development of the country got on the way. He initiated a number of reforms in order to modernize the country. Economy prospered and life was transformed in spite of all the attempts to thwart his plans. The country was supposedly led by democracy. People are rather naive when it comes to the concept of democracy as they tend to interpret it in different ways. The freedom we all thought we had was limited. We were free to do everything except to talk about politics or voice our dissatisfactions. It was hard for some to keep quiet which would get them into trouble. Secret police had enormous power that grew larger with each passing day. In effect, we were all scared to show our displeasure, and we were wary of those we met every day be it the shop-keepers, garbage collectors, or anyone else. There was no way of knowing who was or was not a spy for the regime. The majority of the Iranian people prospered from the booming economy. On the other end of the spectrum however, many still suffered from massive poverty and illiteracy. There are just a handful of illiterates in Sweden for instance, but we cannot say the same thing about my country.

At any rate, life went on and I grew up in a paradoxical environment; in a house full of adults, those of my age, and the younger family members. With a mother who was happy that she had her son, with my half siblings, with a grandmother who interfered in everything that had to do with me, and with a kind and devoted father, especially toward me.

My father's business went through ups and downs. Sometimes, he made a profit and sometimes, he incurred huge losses. Thus at times, we lived luxuriously and at other times, modestly. Life was like a roller-coaster for us. The worry about finances gradually came to an end when my father got a big contract. Then life began to smile at us again. As children we never fully realized how dire our financial situation was at times since my mother was very good at somehow making the ends meet. Therefore no one, not even we, not our families, not anyone else who knew us, could sense that our father was unemployed, or that we were going through a rough patch financially. Years later, when I was an adult and an independent woman, I used to joke with my mother about her ways of handling the situation in bad times. I used to tell her that she would have made a great politician, prime minister, or perhaps finance minister with her ability to shield others against the harsh realities and covering up bad news.

### Wedding ceremonies

Marriage in my time and my country was more like a trade and often a controversial and challenging event. Since there was the three of us girls living at home, many suitors used to make marriage proposals and express their interests to come for a visit to choose one of us for their sons. As long as my oldest sister was unmarried and at home, my father would forbid us two younger ones to show up during these visits. My five-years older, half sister was selected by a nice and decent family. Everything was arranged, and she married a man she had never met before. They lived a happy life however, and had four children together until the terrible war between Iran and Iraq took him from his family.

Traditionally in Iran, a young man's mother selects her future daughter-in-law, and the son has to go along with his mother's decision. Young people used to get married without knowing anything about their future partners. Moreover, they lived mostly an unhappy life together, forever. Since polygamy was allowed, men could re-marry and have more than one wife at the same time. Women, on the other hand, had no choice but to stay in an unhappy marriage as they had no means to support themselves. According to the divorce laws, women were not entitled to anything after divorce. What was to become of them and where would they go?

No one cared about a divorced woman's life and future. It was impossible for a divorced woman to continue living a normal life, alone, and without resources. Therefore, women were simply forced to accept their husbands' second marriages and continue living with the younger rival wives in utterly sick and miserable marriages.

To propose marriage, the women in a young man's family would inform the chosen girl's mother of their interest first, provided that the girl had been found suitable and up to their standards. Then, the girl's mother would start the preparation to receive the guests, or more appropriately, the buyers. The house becomes sparkling clean, the garden well maintained and the flowers watered. Laid on the tables, a number of dishes filled with an assortment of fresh fruits, cakes, and pastries.

The group of visitors is usually comprised of the young man's mother, sisters, aunts, and grandmothers. They would all show up well dressed and often wearing all their jewellery to display their financial status and wealth. It was like they were going on a fashion show or perhaps a fancy dress ball. I used to hate the way they carried themselves and their whole demeanour. From the girl's side, her closest female family members would be present. Upon arrival, the first conversation would be between the two mothers, where the boy's mother would provide information about her son such as, his age, education, and profession. Then a photo of him would be shown to the girl's mother and the other attending family members. If the presentation has gone well or the marketing efforts have been successful, the girl would be called upon to enter the room and treat the guests to a cup of tea or cold drink. It was a horrible experience to parade in front of a group of strangers who were there to make evaluation of one's appearance and behaviour. I, like many other girls, used to be disgusted with the whole process. This was indeed a terrible tradition. It seemed more like they were looking for a maid at home, a sex object and a child-bearer for their son.

In any case, if everything happens to be satisfactory, the visiting family would book an appointment with the girl's family to return with the young man for a visit. The goal was to give the girl's family a chance to meet the young man, as well to facilitate the meeting between the two people who were going to get married. During this second visit, the two would take a few glances at each other. The girl had no right to make comments, or to choose her own partner; the decision was entirely up to adults. She knew she had to keep quiet and accept their decisions without question. Then, it was the girl's family's turn to pay a visit to the other family whereby, they would get a chance to assess the young man's financial status, and ultimately enter into negotiations about the girl's price. Later on, the girl's family would invite the young man's family and a few of their own older family members to a festive dinner whereby, discussions surrounding the dowry, wedding expenses, wedding date, and an agreed upon monetary compensation payable by men to women in case of death or divorce would be held.

On such an occasion, all those invited would gather at the girl's home. She would be nicely dressed and ready to show up only if the negotiations go well and agreements are reached. The most contentious issue during these negotiations is the amount of the lump sum money that a man is required to pay as compensation in case of death or divorce. The discussions surrounding this issue can become quite heated and in fact, disagreements over the exact sum of money can cause a wedding to be completely called off.

An additional sum that the groom is required to pay is what is commonly referred to as the cost of the mother's milk (Shirbaha) that is paid in cash to the bride's family at the time of marriage. These conditions vary among different ethnic groups in Iran. Other issues brought up during these discussions are the wedding expenses, which are the groom's responsibility, the date for the engagement party and the wedding ceremony, and the household items that the bride is to bring with her as a part of her dowry. The dowry is usually extensive enough to furnish a house with everything that a new couple needs to start a life together. Some families even go as far as filling the kitchen pantry of the new couple's house with groceries.

Sometime before the wedding day, which could take anywhere from a few months to a couple of years after engagement, close female relatives on both sides accompany the bride and groom to the bazaar, or in modern times in Iran to department stores and boutiques to do shopping. They spend a whole day going in and out of stores. They make decisions about everything that is, from what items should be bought all the way down to the tiny, little details of the choice of color and style. The bride just tags along and has to live with whatever others have decided for her up to and including the wedding gown she is to wear. After a long day, everyone returns home all exhausted. In the meanwhile, the bride's family makes preparation for the engagement ceremony, which is held at their place. They invite the guests, get the house decorated, prepare food, and rent tables and chairs. Two chairs and a small table are set up for the bride and groom. The groom and his family show up first. The groom sits on the chair and waits for the bride to come in and join him. Once the bride is called upon to come in by her family, she sits next to the groom and without too much words exchanged between them, the groom puts the ring on her finger.

After the engagement, the girl's father determines their visiting hours. Prior to that, the couple are not allowed to spend time together; although, the future son-in-law is welcomed to drop by during major celebrations like Christmas and New Year. Also after the engagement ceremony, the bride's family start putting the dowry together, which has to be sent to the groom's house one week prior to the wedding. One week before the wedding, more ceremonies get underway such as, taking the bride out to get her hair, facial, and eyebrows done. Back then, not only girls were supposed to be virgins, they were also supposed to leave their visage untouched until getting married. Shortly thereafter, a group of women from both sides accompany the bride to the traditional Hammam, which is similar to the Turkish bath. Rich people used to rent the Hammam for a full or half day so that they would have a private session for an entire day. When the bride arrives with her companions to the Hammam, they would be greeted and taken in by the staff. The staff carry iron bowls (Manghal) full of hot coals in a tray and pour special incense on the coal that is meant to bring good luck to the bride.

### The wedding day

Wedding ceremonies were much bigger than engagement parties. All items that were purchased for the bride would be sent to the bride's home two days prior to the wedding in a special fashion. A few men would carry the stuff, which was well wrapped in gold leaves, on a large round tray of wood on their head. At the bride's house, aside from other decorations, Persian rugs were hung on the walls and laid out on the floors all over the house. On the wedding day, well-dressed guests wearing lots of gold and jewellery would start showing up. In my childhood time, many Iranian families used to arrange two separate parties for men and women, which were held either on the same day or over two consecutive days. Sometimes, they would even ask a neighbour if they could hold the men's party over at their neighbour's place.

A room in the house would be dedicated to hold the official marriage ceremony. A nice velvet cloth or a special fabric called Termme, which was embroidered with flowers in silver threads, would be laid out on a table. Then a 'fortunate, young, married woman' would set the table and place the mirrors, candles, the Koran, cakes, fruits, a special thin bread baked for the occasion, honey, a tray of incense seeds dyed in various and bright colours and in fine shapes, flowers, a plate of fresh herbs, and a plate containing few pieces of white cheese on the table.

People used to have a hair-stylist come over to fix the hair and make up of the bride, as well as a few other close relatives of the bride and the groom. Otherwise, arrangements were made for the bride and her wedding party to go to a hair salon.

A mullah was invited to conduct the wedding ceremony. He would be seated outside the room where the bride and a few of her close female relatives were seated. It was not permissible for unmarried girls, divorced, and unlucky women to be present in that room. A few women would stand behind the bride, hold a white and finely embroidered fabric above the bride's head, and grind two large sugar cubes together which is meant to bring good luck for the couple in their marriage. The others would be busy sewing fabric with a needle and thread which symbolizes the wish for a good relationship between the bride and her, soon to be, mother-in-law. Once the mullah was given the authorization by the girl's father and the groom, he would start the official ceremony by reading a few short verses from the Koran. Then, he would ask the bride for her consent to marry the young man. Customarily, he would have to repeat the question three times.

After the second time of the bride not responding, the mother-in-law would offer the bride a gift, often gold, a piece of jewellery, or gold coins, and ask her to say yes. Then the mullah is informed that the bride has got her gift (Zir Lafzi) and is ready to say yes. For the third time, the mullah asks the same question, and this time, she replies in a modest tone and says yes.

Then, the mullah reads a few more verses of the Koran and confirms their marriage. At this point, the groom walks into the room and for the first time without any restrictions or interferences, he joins his wife. He puts the ring on her finger and presents her with gifts, usually jewellery. Others rush in to congratulate them and give the bride more jewellery and gold as gifts. Then, the new couple dip their little fingers in honey and feed that to each other, a gesture that symbolizes their hope for a happy and sweet life together, which turns out not to be the case for some. Then the couple is left alone for a short time to chat and to get to know each other a bit better. When the ceremony is ended, everyone leaves but the groom who stays for dinner. Although married legally, the couple cannot spend any time alone together. They still have to wait until they move in together after their wedding reception.

Now comes the time to ensure that every item on the dowry's list is purchased and packed. Over the next few days, the bride's mother and some of her family members go shopping for all sorts of household items. It is time-consuming and exhausting to go around and get everything that a couple would possibly need to start a life together. They only have a short period of time to get all the required items since the dowry needs to be sent to the groom's house at least a week before the wedding night.

I remember how tired my mother was from carrying out this harsh and demanding task when my oldest sister was getting married. She went out of her way to ensure that everything was perfect and that nothing was forgotten.

On the day of the wedding reception, the guests gather at the bride's home. The bride is ready in her wedding gown, all excited and anxious about starting a new life with a man she barely knows. The groom and his family come bearing gifts and flowers, and ask permission from the bride's father to take her to her new home.

Every body would line up in their cars in a long procession, honking their horns, and following the couple's car, which would normally be decorated with flowers and bows, to their new home where the reception would be held. The guests would then be invited to dinner, and a group of musicians called Motrebe Rohozi would provide guests with entertainment namely, singing, dancing, and stand-up comedy. This type of entertainment was a common part of the wedding ceremonies and while the entertainers were not celebrities, they were very popular.

Anyway, at midnight, the couple leave the party. This happens to be a significant night for the newly married couple as a young girl is transformed into a full-blown woman. The couple head to their bedroom, which is decorated nicely with flowers, candles, bows, new embroideries, mattress, quilt, pillows, and bedspread in colourful satin or silk fabric. Many close female relatives follow the couple to the room. The groom's parents come in and welcome the bride to their son's life. The groom's father offers a gift to the bride and then, joins their hands together while saying a prayer for their happiness in life. Additionally, he prays for the first-born child, the much anticipated grandchild, to be a healthy baby boy. Then every body leaves the room. Now, the bride and groom are to be left alone and undisturbed in order to get to know each other spiritually and physically.

A handful of very close family members sit in a room next to theirs, and wait anxiously to hear from the groom on the bride's virginity, a humiliating and degrading practice that at times leads to major disasters. As a proof of the bride's virginity, an embroidered napkin that carries the blood stains is to be shown to the mother-in-law.

It was a great tragedy and shame for the bride and her family, if the bride was not a virgin. The celebration would turn ugly with hatred and threats toward the bride's family, but the biggest threat was directed mostly at the bride from both hers and the groom's family. She would be kicked out from her new home while her family would be required to refund all the wedding expenses to the groom. The girl would have nowhere to turn to as she would not be welcomed back at her parents either. There were many girls who committed suicide in such insufferable situations, or they simply disappeared without a trace and ended up in prostitution. In still other cases, they were murdered on the same night of their wedding, either by their husbands' family, or their own.

The day after the wedding ceremony, those who want to bring gifts, and those who were not at the wedding reception would stop by at the couple's home. Back then, a wedding celebration could last a few days. Nowadays, however, the tradition has changed and the ceremonies are much shorter in length. Sadly, a girl's virginity is still a crucial and sensitive subject for both families.

It is absolutely absurd how so much emphasis is put on this condition and requirement by some men. At times, a man who lives abroad prefers to marry a girl from his own homeland so as to ensure that he marries a virgin. That is the reason there are many so-called 'imported brides' in Sweden. Inevitably, most of such marriages are doomed to fail and are short lived. In some bizarre ways, the two seem to use each other. It becomes more of a trade; virginity for residence permit.

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### Meeting my husband, 1962

I was very young and knew nothing about the real world when I said yes to my husband's marriage proposal. Well it turned out to be a good decision and I am happy I did. I was a fifteen-year-old girl and in love. I was lucky that everything went almost as well as I had dreamt of in my childhood. What was done was done, and I suddenly went from a young fifteen-year-old girl to a grown woman.

On a beautiful day in March, grandmother wanted to visit her uncle's wife, who recently had a stroke and had become disabled; a beautiful woman in her old age. The effects of age and fatigue obscured her beautiful blue eyes. The old woman's face was full of wrinkles that still had traces of beauty. I always followed my grandmother when she went to visit her relatives, and this time was no different. There is no doubt that my mother was unable or unwilling to say no to her own mother and tell her not to take me with her everywhere.

My mother's weakness in that respect caused pain for not just me but herself too. It was years later, when I was all grown up that she acknowledged that she did not get the chance to raise me the way she wanted to, and it was mostly because she did not want to hurt her mother. My grandmother loved me so much that she used to say she could not live without me. Unfortunately, I was the first and only granddaughter so, I got to follow her everywhere and not the grandsons. I hated the fact that I had no say or control over my life. I was almost always jealous of my cousins. They were free from my grandmother's influence. Her way of controlling my life was one of the reasons that my mother and I became so distant from each other. While unintended, she also robbed her own daughter of the joy of motherhood and deprived me of being with my mother. Deep down in my heart, I still feel the void and will never forgive my grandmother for that. I remember that sometimes I cried, and told my mother, in vain, that I did not want to follow my grandmother.

Sadly, my mother was either deaf or she was not listening to my pleas to let me stay home. Sometimes I felt like a black sheep who was rejected by her own mother. Therefore, I promised myself not to ever let her take care of my children the way she allowed her mother to act as my mother. Therefore, I find it troubling when I see mothers who give their mothers the full right to take care of the grandchildren. Similarly, I criticize all the grandmothers who meddle in their daughters' lives too much, and take the kids away from their own mothers. In my eyes that is kidnapping. Without breaking any laws, they kidnap their grandchildren, and they do it purely out of selfish reasons. To certain extent, what they are trying to do is to compensate for their shortcomings as mothers to their own children by means of taking care of grandchildren, and ridding their conscience from feelings of guilt.

On the other hand, some daughters take advantage of their mothers' kindness or weakness by leaving their children, which they wanted to have, with their mothers so that they can go and enjoy life. Why? I do not know. Why do women have children when they cannot let go of some of their freedom? In fact, everything has its price. The desire to have children comes with certain conditions which one must be prepared to accept including less personal freedom. I resented my grandmother and still do. I may be able to forgive both my mother and my grandmother for the cruelty they subjected me to, but I cannot forget what was done to me under the pretence of kindness. My grandmother had countless number of family members, and I was constantly forced to follow her wherever she went and be around grown ups, whom I did not know and with whom I had nothing in common.

As usual, I followed my grandmother that day to her uncle's home. All our relatives, a large number of them had stormed there to greet Khanom, a woman who used to be married to a very powerful man. After her husband's death, she had succeeded to manage her life beautifully; therefore, she was admired and respected by all. Now she was ill and bedridden, and everyone wanted to be there for her. In a crowded room, I sat by myself, quietly, looking through a magazine. I was bored and I wanted to go home. Then suddenly something unexpected happened! Her son showed up to visit her. He was an attractive, handsome, well dressed, 6.1 feet tall and slightly heavy man who had a commanding tone of voice that made him even more alluring. He was highly educated with a Doctor of Philosophy degree in law, who had served as the chief judge at the District Court of Tehran and was now a renowned lawyer. Sweden's former Prime Minister, Göran Person, reminds me a little bit of my husband. Since we were relatives, we had met on many occasions in the past during our family gatherings. But this time, something was different. We talked for a while when he asked me what my future plans were, which took me by surprise as I did not know what to make of that question.

I certainly was not a mind reader. He practically ignored all the guests and started talking with me. He talked about his job as a lawyer, and he mentioned that he was attending a course to improve his penmanship. Then suddenly he asked me, "Have you seen my handwriting?" "No," I said.

He wrote a few lines on a piece of paper and gave it to me. I was speechless and could not believe that he had proposed to me.

The note read, "My little darling, you are very beautiful and intelligent. You are also a fantastic girl. I like you. Would you marry me? P.S. Do not say anything out loud so that others would find out what I wrote; instead, write your answer on the paper."

I was without words; I could not look up at him or write anything down. I blushed, my heart started to pound, and my hands began to tremble like a leaf. I was simply shocked and I almost fainted. Back then, it was disgraceful for a girl and her family if people found out that a girl had already been in touch with her future husband. The atmosphere was stifling for me. At the same time, I was battling with two different emotions deep down inside. On one hand, the fear of being exposed and, on the other, the feeling of love. For me, it was love at first glance and I did not want to say no to him. He was a handsome, charming and irresistible man. Finally, I composed myself and wrote on the piece of paper, "The decision is unfortunately not up to me, you have to talk to my parents." So the piece of paper kept going back and forth between us with more questions and answers. Luckily, everyone was so busy with their own conversations that no one noticed what was transpiring at the other side of the room between the two of us. My grandmother wanted to stay for a while longer with his family, but I wanted to leave.

I started heading for the door to leave when he offered to accompany me. All the way home, he talked about our wonderful future and happy life together. He promised that he would do his best to make me feel like the luckiest woman in the world.

I came home and told my mother that I had a guest with me. I told her that it was grandmother's cousin who had accompanied me home and wanted to say hello. While my parents talked to him, I went to the other room and kept out of sight. My half sister, who was my own age, was curious and asked me what in the world he was doing there as he had never visited us before! I started laughing. It was fun to pretend that I did not know why he had suddenly come to visit. He had asked my parents for my hand in marriage, but the immediate answer from my father was a big "No."

They were completely against the marriage because of the age difference between us, and because my father did not want me to get married before I had finished high school. The stalemate dragged on for six months. My whole family was against the marriage proposal. But I remained steadfast the whole time, arguing that it was either him or no one else. My father tried to dissuade me to no avail. No matter how hard they tried, I would not change my mind. Young and stubborn, I kept telling them that if they did not agree to the marriage, I would never get married to anyone else, and I would never forgive them.

I had butterflies in my stomach the whole time, and I kept thinking about my future if my parents did not agree to the marriage. My mother talked to me and asked me to think about my future with a man who was older than me; advising me that if I regretted my decision in a few years after getting married then, I would have to go for a divorce.

"No," I said; I wanted to live my life with a man who suited me. I went on to say, "He is highly educated, attractive, and well known. I would love to be married to such a man. I was fortunate that he wanted to marry me. His age means nothing to me. Age difference is of no significance to me, I think of his good qualities. I can never think of marrying an inexperienced, young man who takes married life for granted, and does not stay true to me. I am aware of his age as I am cognizant of the fact that he would not leave me for someone else! I have made my decision and you cannot change my mind. I want control over my own life and will not let anyone else control my life." My mother was dumbfounded, and all she could say was, "What are you talking about? How do you know?" My mother could not understand why I suddenly did not want to marry the love of my love: M, when we were both so young, in love, and with a whole future ahead of us. She was not aware of our many overt and secret meetings. M was 21 years old and I was 14. We were in love and had promised each other to get married one day, and have a wonderful life together. He was a distant relative of mine. In less than a year, a great romance bloomed between us. So many love poems and letters that were sent back and forth. I never forget the feeling of those romantic evenings when we sat and talked about our future, read poems, and sang songs to each other.

One Thursday evening on the last day of summer, my father, my sister, and I were invited to M's family. After dinner, when my father wanted us to go home, M's older sister insisted that my sister and I stay the night. My father did not want to leave us there, but he finally agreed to let us stay. It was a great evening and we had lots of fun. Then we played cards on the condition that the loser must read a poem from the book of the great poet, Hafez. Every time I lost a hand, I read a love poem and tried to make eye contact with my sweetheart. Late that evening, it was time to retire for the night. In Iran, we used to sleep outdoors during summer. So we went up to sleep on the roof. It was a beautiful night and there was a clear sky. The full moon and the stars were dancing in the sky. It was a wonderful, magical night for two people in love who wished that the night could linger on forever and never end. Daylight seemed to be our only enemy. While the others fell asleep, the two of us were awake since we did not want to lose a minute of that golden opportunity. The two of us enjoyed the peace and quiet of the last summer night. We stayed awake under the moonlight, the lovely, silvery candlelight, and whispered softly to each other and made promises and planned our future together. Life always plays with people's emotions and turns the sweetest dreams into absolute nightmares.

After over a year of the two of us being in love, M's family decided to come to my parents with a marriage proposal. I was over the moon and kept fantasizing that soon we would be together and live as one. No more secret meetings, no more love letters. But unbeknown to me, my dreams were about to be shattered.

His family used to throw a party every two months and invite many guests including, us. We were at one such gathering. I was impatient and eager to talk with him in private. Since we were sitting far away from each other, I could not talk to him. I was hoping he might go out to the garden so that I could follow him and talk to him. As I was keeping a watch of his every movement, I saw him suddenly sneak out of the room with his cousin. After a while, without drawing any attention to myself, I went out looking for him. In a dark, damp, small room at the other corner of the house, there he stood with his back to the door kissing her. There was no doubt that he had lied to me about his feelings. It is hard to describe how I felt. I felt like screaming. I thought I was going to pass out. I felt my heart was broken into tiny pieces with sadness, grief, anger, and fear. Quietly, I turned around, fighting back the tears. I ran into an empty room and started crying. While I could hear the guests in the other room laughing and having a good time, I left the house with great sadness in my heart and without saying goodbye to anyone or telling my mother that I was leaving. I no longer believed that love was everlasting. My world had fallen apart in a matter of a second and my love for him had turned to hatred. To get hurt emotionally at a sensitive age turned my life upside down.

### The engagement

For six months, there was pure chaos at home as the family discussions about my future intensified. My uncle and aunt were against the marriage. My mother cried and my father simply did not want to talk to me. My uncle was an army officer; he was a man of discipline and principles, and he was set in his ways. He got married when he was 32 years old, and had two sons. I was his favourite niece. When I was a child, he used to take me to movies on Fridays, which are weekend holidays in Iran, and help me with my homework. He was most concerned about my decision and the impact it would have on my life, and he tried to change my mind to no avail.

It was the same with my aunt who loved me like her own daughter. After all, she used to be very attached to me for so many years before she had her first daughter. She was also opposed to my marriage and when she realized that she cannot get me to change my mind, she also left in disbelief much like my uncle.

In September 1962, we got engaged and set a date for the wedding in October.

The engagement ceremony was a private one with only my husband's mother and siblings, my parents, my grandmother, and my siblings in attendance.

Although sad and heartbroken, my mother made all the preparations and cooked a wonderful dinner for the occasion. The engagement ring was made of white gold and adorned with seven diamonds. My husband was extremely happy, he was in seventh heaven. I thought about how the future I had once envisioned never came to be, but I was determined to forget the past and get on with my new life.

I turned over a new leaf in my diary and began to write a new chapter that lasted twenty three years. My fiancé came to our home every day and took me to movies or shopping at Lalezar, a popular, short, and narrow street that was full of movie theatres, cafeterias, fine dining restaurants, jewellery stores, and a department store. We walked up and down that short and narrow street many times. In the evenings, we would have dinner in one of those beautiful restaurants, and then he would drive me home while I would look forward to the next day. I had very fond memories of that particular street.

My father, who loved me more than my siblings and found me more understanding and intelligent than my siblings, was a civil engineer. He used to take me to work and show me how they built cinemas, houses and mosques. Exactly on that street, Lalezar, my father always invited me to cake and hot chocolate milk in winters, or special Persian ice cream with delicious taste of saffron, rose water, and cream in yellow and white colours with chopped pistachio, during hot summers. My father used to talk about his job with me, about how drawings were made first before a building was constructed. One day he took me with him to Rex Cinema, which was located on that popular street, Lalezar. The cinema was to be renovated and its outdated screen was to be changed with a widescreen (cinemascope). After renovations, this cinema became the very first modern cinema in Iran.

In Tehran-Pars, an area west of Tehran, my father built the first drive-in movie theatre. I was the only one of his children who always visited his job sites. Many fine and modern cinemas were built according to his drawings. We used to take road trips in Iran after my father bought a car. My father had no driver's license so he had to hire a driver. It was fun for us to see historic and tourist cities along the Caspian Sea. The trips were always exciting as we had to drive along narrow, winding, dangerous, and yet, scenic roads and idyllic small villages through Alborz Mountain, or in long tunnels heading to the Caspian Sea. In summers, when Tehran suffers from heat-waves, the mountainous areas are freezing cold. The snow remains on top of the high Mount Damavand that peaks over 18,000 feet above the sea level. Damavand is a dormant volcano. The volcano is located in the middle of the Alborz Range and is the highest mountain in the entire Middle East. The mountain is located near the southern coast of the Caspian Sea, and northeast of Tehran. In my childhood, we had a lot of unforgettable trips across the country, which were fascinating for everyone, especially for me. It is quite breathtaking to experience the beauty that each region has to offer, which makes the northern and southern parts of Iran so uniquely different from each other. The magnificent landscape stretches itself along mountains, deserts, woods, and throughout the entire country. I carry all those memories with me, both from my childhood and from my adulthood. From the tall, narrow, curvy, green and rocky mountain ranges in the northern parts to the south and southeast parts of Iran with its mountains, oases, and its dry desert of Dasht-e Lut. Dasht-e Lut is one of the world's hottest and driest areas. It is located in the southeast of Iran where the largest provinces are Kerman and Zahedan. The desert has the highest temperatures reaching around 150° F. In south of Iran and in the desert, there is a large temperature difference between night time and daytime. A few tribes live on the fringes of the desert and in the oases.

### Wedding, 1962

I was very young and knew nothing about the real world when I said yes to my husband's marriage proposal. Well it turned out to be a good decision and I am happy I did. I was a fifteen-year-old girl and in love. I was lucky that everything went almost as well as I had dreamt of in my childhood. What was done was done, and I suddenly went from a young fifteen-year-old girl to a grown woman. We got married on 23rd of October, two months after the engagement day.

I chose the style of my wedding dress. It was really nice; it was a white top with a short skirt and no long veil. I found the dress in a catalogue from Paris and asked my tailor to make it for me. As for my hairstyle, I had chosen a Japanese model.

Additionally, I made it clear that I did not want anyone telling me what to buy and what not to buy. I went shopping with my mother and my sister-in-law. I never forget my wedding ceremony and the wedding reception. It was a lovely party. I will remember that night for as long as I live. My husband was very nervous about the wedding night. In Iran, like other Islamic and patriarchal countries, the bride has to be a virgin. Therefore, on the wedding night, evidence has to be presented to the mother-in-law to prove the bride's virginity. My husband, however, did away with that tradition and refused to follow such appalling practices. In Iran, the bride must also have dowry. Luckily, we skipped many of the old-fashioned customs. We did what we wanted to do.

The day after my wedding, my father went with my older half brother and some of our family members to the city of Tabriz, my father's hometown. The reason for their trip was that my half brother wanted to marry my cousin. They had fallen in love a long time ago when my half brother had met her on one of his visits to Tabriz. He also got his wish to marry his sweetheart, and have many children and grandchildren together. The reason that our weddings took place within such short time from one another was that the two months of mourning, Muharram and Safar, were fast approaching. According to religious traditions, one should not get married nor have parties during those two months.

According to the Shi'a Muslims, one thousand four hundred years ago, the Prophet Mohammad's grandson suffered martyrdom in the city of Karbala in Iraq. Therefore in Iran, there are two long and depressing months dedicated to mourning, which is beyond my comprehension. We were forced under torture and death threats to take up the new religion of Islam only after the invasion and occupations of Iran by Arabs over one thousand four hundred years ago. They remained in power and ruled the country for about 500 years.

During that period, we were not allowed to talk or write in Farsi. Books written in that era were in Arabic regardless of whether they were scientific, novels, or poetry. It took five hundred years before we could throw out the invaders and take back our country. Although we won the battle, their religion shackled Iranians, and their language impacted ours and left its trace. And even in the contemporary era, we bear witness to the irrational, uncivilized situation in Iran.

At first we were just Muslims, but then we became Shi'a Muslims seven or eight hundred years ago. Shi'a is a branch of Islam and is a minority religion in most Muslim countries except Iran, where the majority is Shi'a. This marks the separation between Persians and Arabs. However to this day, the Shi'as still mourn what happened to the Prophet and his entire family 1400 years ago. Something that in fact has nothing to do with us Persians.

Anyway, I started my life as a married woman. Now, I had to run a household and do everything including, receiving guests who either out of interest or curiosity wanted to come and visit. Everything was new to me. It took no longer than a month before I noticed changes in my physical condition. I felt sick especially in the mornings. I did not know why. I wondered all the time why I could not eat or tolerate the smell of food. We used to eat out every time we were going to a movie. For the most part, we used to eat rice and grilled-kebab (chello kebab), which is a favourite dish of all Iranians, at fine restaurants. But now, I could not enjoy my food, which was rather worrisome. I did not tell anyone that I was not feeling well, but I did go to see my doctor. After running a few tests, he congratulated me and gave me the news that I was pregnant with my first child.

### The White Revolution (1963)

The white revolution happened in 1963, eagerly cheered on by the Western powers. It was not really a revolution, but rather a series of reforms. Shah was a modern thinker and wanted to curtail clerical power. He eradicated feudal system and distributed lands that were owned by landlords among the peasants. He gave women the right and the freedom to work as did women in the West. Women were also banned from wearing the veil. Shah's efforts were concentrated on fostering education and expanding the industry. Bigamy was outlawed. He also separated the state from religion by abolishing clergy's constitutional power. While bringing about reform, these changes also provided Shah with more control and power. People were granted more rights, but so long as they were supporters of Shah. Those who had contrary opinions were persecuted. It is believed that SAVAK (Iran's secret service) was responsible for the death of those opposing the government up until the revolution in 1979. Another less flattering side of the White Revolution was that the already widespread corruption amplified. Those in charge of the distribution of the land and the wealth favoured some groups over others. As such, many were left with too little to survive and agricultural production sharply declined.

Ultimately, Iran was forced to import food which was a completely new phenomenon for the country. With the mechanization of large parts of production in 1975, many small farmers were forced to join the large farms. This not only angered the farmers, it also changed the balance of power even for the rural elites and especially the clergy. Shah began to make enemies everywhere and lost more support on the home front. In the late 70s, protesters took to the streets. While students' demonstration had to do with the democratic rights, Muslim groups focused on the regime's immorality in legalizing gambling, the sale of alcohol, and tolerating sex before marriage. The one thing in common between the two groups was their condemnation of the secret service. The Iranian communists, on the other hand, were critical of the regime's strong ties to the United States.

Shah began to change the system. He wanted to end oppression and give freedom to women who had no rights and no control over their own destiny. He wanted to give women the right to vote so that they could be an active part of the society. He argued that half of Iranians are women and they need to get out and be active in the society.

Women were given the right to work. They were granted the right to vote. They also gained the right to have custody of their children after divorce. They had the right to be elected as members of parliament. They were also granted the right to further their education. Bigamy became punishable under new laws. Along with his other reforms and by empowering the disadvantaged groups in the society, Shah made mullahs including, Khomeini powerless. Power was taken away from the religious leaders. The more rights and freedom that was bestowed on people, the more furious the mullahs became.

So Khomeini started to protest against Shah's White Revolution. It was difficult and uncomfortable for the mullahs since the mullahs benefited from the feudal system, and now they had to live on alms.

Thus, Khomeini began ordering the peasants to obey the landlords. He also encouraged men to maintain control over their wives. Khomeini was opposed to women's right to vote, to work, to become elected members of parliament, and he fought to reverse what had been done and to regain control and power over women. He was concerned that, under new conditions, men could not continue to keep women in the kitchen and use them as a factory to produce children for them without them having any say in the matter. Using religion and the fear of judgment day, he went on to poison people's mind, brainwashing them, and encouraging them to rise up.

Those who believed in him and blindly supported him came out to protest. The protest turned into bloodshed and it was ended by military intervention. All this happened on the tenth day of Muharram in 1963.

I was then, only sixteen years old, newly married, and seven months pregnant with my first son. We lived with my mother-in-law and my sister-in-law in a big three-story house. I heard on the radio that the city was ravaged by fire and shootings. Devout Muslims and fundamentalists rushed to the streets with the aim of overthrowing the government. I ran hysterically downstairs to my mother-in-law's room. There were only we three helpless women at home, who could not do anything. My husband was a lawyer and was at court that day, which was located close to the bazaar district.

It was precisely in that district that demonstrators penetrated through the religious procession and hit people and soldiers with wooden sticks. It was clear that the shooting was a response to the brutal violence. It all happened very fast, forcing people to flee the scene and hide in any house that took them in.

It was a huge disaster. We were home and did not know what exactly was going on. The city of Tehran had turned into a war zone. The demonstrators filled the narrow street, where we lived, with the military in their pursuit. I was looking out the window and could see the hate and aggression in the demonstrators' faces. Shops closed down in a hurry, and those who were home remained behind closed doors. Several shots were fired and the sound echoed in the air. I happened to see a person getting hit by a bullet and no one to help him. It was pure chaos.

My mother-in-law called me frantically to close the curtains and come and sit down. She was worried for me. Once the sun set, people started to disappear. But there was no sign of my husband yet. We were worried sick and I burst into tears. What would I do without my husband? How would I raise my child without a father?

I detested what had happened all day, with all the atrocities and the destruction. I kept asking myself how religion could be so brutal. Why innocent people are killed in the name of God? That is the reason I hate all religions in the world. I like to be free like a bird, I want to love everything and everyone. The little baby in my belly had not moved at all during the entire day. My anxiety obviously affected the little life that was growing inside me. I jumped instinctively at every sound that came from the hallway and thought to myself that maybe it was my husband who opened the door and came in as he always did. But this time was unlike any other. He did not. I, my mother-in-law, and my sister-in-law stayed up all night and waited restlessly for him. That very evening Khomeini's followers who thought they could take over the government lost the fight against the military and the secret police. The civilian security personnel, police, and military defeated the demonstrators. Finally, the city was calm. An uncomfortable silence filled the city, and yet, fear was not gone, even though the soldiers were guarding the streets. The arrests began immediately and many leaders like Khomeini and other mullahs were captured. We listened to the police chief's message on the radio.

The state of siege had been proclaimed in the capital, Tehran.

He said after severe clashes between the police, the army, and the protesters, the military had ordered a curfew. Soon after, military vehicles patrolled the streets to make sure the curfew was upheld.

Perhaps, my husband could not come home because of the curfew; provided he was alive! Perhaps he was injured or killed. Maybe he had ended up in a morgue or a hospital? So many awful thoughts kept going through my head, but I did not share them with my mother-in-law, although I knew that she could see it in my face. She was the best mother-in-law one could wish for. Despite being worried for her son, she tried to comfort me. It was not that long ago that she had suffered a stroke and become disabled. Still, she was a strong woman, an amazing lady who became a widow at a young age, but managed to raise her children successfully. She loved her children. My husband was her first born child.

Out of worry, that night we could neither eat dinner, nor sleep.

At dawn, I passed out on the couch. I dreamed that my husband had come home and that we had sat and talked about our baby on the way and whether it was going to be a boy or a girl. The baby's kick in my belly woke me up. At first, I did not know where I was. I looked for my husband and he was not there. My mother-in-law tried to calm me down. I started crying and asked her if he had come home. "No," she said.

What were we going to do? Where was he? Was he still alive or . . . ? I feared the worst and could not stop crying. I asked my mother-in-law if we could listen to the radio. "There is nothing on the radio yet," she said; "it starts soon. Have a little patience, think positive. Maybe he stayed with friends because of the state of siege? He will be home." The more she comforted me, the more worried I became.

Fortunately, my husband came home an hour after the curfew was lifted. The door swung open and he walked in. He was tired and had dust all over his suit. His eyes were red and he looked exhausted. I did not know what to say. The three of us women sat next to him and started asking where he had been and if he was unharmed.

He explained that there were a lot of shootings and violence in the area where the court was located; therefore, the courthouse had gone into a state of lock down and no one had been allowed to leave. The protestors had tried to occupy the radio station which was near the court house in Tehran, but the military had managed to fend them off. I could not imagine what could have happened if they had succeeded to take over the radio station. My husband did not have much more to tell us, he was very tired and shocked by everything that had happened. We were just happy that he finally had come home safe and sound.

We got more update on the situation from the news on the radio. According to the news, among others, two of the campaign leaders by the names of Tayeb Haj and Rezai along with Khomeini had been arrested. The calm had returned to the city, but the fear had not subsided. Those who had lost a loved one in the skirmishes were devastated, and the religious mourning services for the Prophet's grandson were taken over by ordinary people mourning the loss of their loved ones. On the surface, the city was calm, but beneath the calmness, there was a sense of unrest and anxiety. Shah and his supporters were outraged, and the police force and the military prepared for potential attacks. The state of siege continued for about a month.

Military trials began immediately against those detained protagonists. The two campaign leaders mentioned earlier were sent to the firing squad. On the other hand, with the intervention of the religious leaders through negotiations with Shah, and the appointment of Khomeini to the decree of Ayatollah, Khomeini was sentenced to live in exile. According to the legislation, a person of such religious standing could not be executed. At first, Khomeini was sent to Turkey, where he tried to shore up support amongst people. To avoid possible social unrest in that country however, the Turkish government expelled him from Turkey and transferred him to Iraq.

As for the other detainees, the sentences were carried out within a short span of time. The families of prisoners made many attempts to have the death sentences reduced to life-in-prison by requesting pardon from Shah, and appealing to the Queen, among other things. However, concerned about the ramifications of such leniency, the sentences remained unchanged and they were carried out.

Despite all the chaos and tragedy, life went on and as time went by, new possibilities emerged particularly, for women. Women began to live a new life with an entirely fresh perspective and more freedoms and rights.

People apparently forgot the events of that bloody day. Khomeini continued to live in Iraq with his family, and while seemingly forgotten by all and no longer considered a threat, he continued his crusade against Shah. Shah got on with the pressing task of developing the country economically and socially. On the other hand, his secret police became more active than before. Arrests were still being made with the communists as primary targets followed by the members of Mujahedeen and Khomeini's supporters.

Inevitably, people could not foresee the future events. No one knew that the worst is yet to come. That their way of life was going to be threatened in much similar ways as in the course of an earthquake or tsunami, and the relative rights and freedom that existed were to be abolished. It was hard to believe that the country would be devastated; a state of affairs that has dragged on for over thirty years and how much longer it persists, no one can tell. Khomeini was to be elevated from the state of an agitator to that of a supreme leader. Without the help and support from foreign powers who tried to keep him alive, who knows?

### The birth of my first son Ali

Ten months after the wedding, I was nine-month pregnant and found it difficult to sleep or exercise. The weather was sunny and very hot, 90º F, and the fans could not cool the air. To avoid the heat, people stayed indoors. One Wednesday afternoon, I closed my eyes for a moment, and I was, suddenly, awakened by a sharp pain in my back. I also felt a cramp in my stomach. I was young and inexperienced and had no idea what the pain was about. I thought maybe it was something I ate and tried to forget about it. Once the pain calmed down, I went to my mother-in-law's room.

As soon as she saw me, she asked whether I was feeling alright. She was worried because I looked pale. I told her that I had cramps and once she found out about the stomach cramps, she sat me down and asked my sister-in-law to get me a glass of water. I insisted that it was not necessary and went to get up to do it myself when the cramps started again and forced me to sit back in the chair. I screamed hysterically as the pain became more acute. My mother-in-law became worried and told my sister-in-law to go get my mother.

I assured her that I was fine and there was no need to fetch my mother. I reiterated that it was probably a simple stomach ache and nothing more. She said no, that was definitely labour pain that had started and more than likely, the baby was on the way. I got scared as this was my first time giving birth and did not know what to expect. I was worried as to how to handle the pain; I was concerned with the health of the baby and both our conditions during the procedure. By the time the midwife arrived, the pain had become excruciating. Immediately after her examination, she advised us to get to the hospital since in her view, I was about twenty-four hours away from labour. On Thursday afternoon, I was taken to the hospital and immediately admitted. My whole family was at the hospital to comfort me. They sat in the waiting room while I was in labour. We were of the impression that it was going to be a fast delivery, but it took more than the estimated 24 hours for the baby to arrive. The pain was killing me. I did not know what part of my body was in pain, my back or stomach. It was extremely uncomfortable as I could not lie down, stand or walk. Moreover, I could not eat anything.

It took until one o'clock on Friday afternoon when my water broke. The pain was indescribable. I was comforted by my doctor and the midwives that the pain was going to be over soon and that I would have my baby in my arms. I had no idea that the doctor had spoken with my husband and had got permission to do a Caesarean section if needed. Two more hours passed. Despite the pain, I felt an excitement to see my first child, to kiss his little face, to hold him tight in my arms. The child I carried for nine months and so close to my heart. The child I talked to every day about my wishes and dreams. I always had a feeling that my first child was going to be a boy and that was the reason I chose a boy's name, Ali, from the beginning. At three o'clock on a Friday afternoon in August of 1963, my first son, Ali, was born without the need of a surgery.

Having experienced the massive pain, I promised myself not to have more children. My doctor and the midwife turned to me with a smile and said that more than likely, I would be back the following year to give birth to another child.

The midwife gave me my newborn son; I felt his soft and beautiful skin. It was wonderful to hold him in my arms. My heart started beating hard, it was an incredible experience. Finally, after nine months, after all the sleepless nights, poor eating, nausea, and discomfort, now I had my baby in my arms.

Back then, we were not supposed to have the baby in the room with us or breastfeed the baby for about twenty-four hours after delivery. When the umbilical cord was cut, they took my baby away from me. After nine months, this was the first time I got separated from my baby in the real world. I thought I was done with being in pain and can relax! It did not even take a minute before the terrible pains and contractions came back. I started screaming. I thought there might be another baby coming, but it turned out to be the placenta. The pain and the fear were the same until they took out the placenta. They carefully examined it to be sure that they had got all of it. Now I was paralyzed by the terrible and painful childbirth, which could have ended with a Caesarean section.

My family waited impatiently in the waiting room. My grandmother who was a religious woman had vowed to make a contribution to the mosque on my behalf. My mother was in tears and my husband was worried. My father had been there all the time, but in the morning he had to go to work and did not get to see his grandchild.

He was going to build an airport in the city of Abadan in southern Iran, where a major oil refinery is located. He had to live there for two years. My mother was supposed to follow him the same day, but she wanted to take care of me so she stayed for forty days before joining my father.

It was late in the afternoon when I was taken back to the maternity ward, and because visiting hours were over, no one in my family could come up and see me or the baby. The next day when my family came for visit, I was still very tired, and yet happy. My husband came with flowers and a card, cheerful and thankful. They did not stay long. I asked them if they had seen the baby and they said they had and that he was doing fine. I slept for hours. In the evening, I woke up with pain. My breasts were heavy and swollen. I wanted to go and see my son. A nurse took me to see him. I watched my baby from behind the glass window and I was over the moon. After twenty-four hours, I was allowed to breastfeed him for the first time. Pain, joy, and stress sum up all the different feelings I had at the same time. I was a seventeen year old mother who embraced her son with great pride. I stayed at the hospital for another three days before I was released. At the hospital, I got to breastfeed my baby four times a day, which was the common practice in those days. The rest of the time, a mother could see her child only through a glass window. At the time I had my first child, there were no disposable diapers or similar products.

At home, one would sew whatever was needed. Since this was my first time, I was a bit clumsy. During her stay with me, my mother taught me how to look after an infant. The house was filled with joy when I got home with my newborn son. In Iran, there are different traditions for different occasions. After delivery, the mother is to lie in bed for seven days if the baby had been a girl, and ten days if the child had been a boy. This was no doubt a sign of inequality between the two genders from day one. On the sixth day, the family would get together and celebrate. A mullah or elderly man in the family would say a prayer and whisper the name of God, the Prophet, and the twelve Imams who were the Prophet's son-in-law, Ali, and his children and grandchildren in the baby's ear. The child would then be pronounced a Muslim, a religion that is given to the child at birth. Shortly thereafter, a baby boy would go through circumcision and a baby girl though an ear piercing. My husband and I did not believe in those traditions, but since we had to get our son circumcised, we decided to at least postpone it until he was about six months.

My family made preparations for the party on the tenth day. The bed rest was over. At that time, the only bathing facilities were the public ones which were called Hammam and were similar to the Turkish bath. They were open from dawn until late at night. Early in the morning was designated for men and after that it was women's turn and their children. Boys older than seven years of age did not follow their mothers and had to be taken by their fathers early in the mornings. There were also private Hammams but they were more expensive. The day before the party, my mother went to a private Hammam and booked time for me and those who were going to accompany me.

When we came home, we were greeted by our guests who had come bearing gifts. We had a big yard with a big pond in the centre of it, which was full of goldfish. Those who had the means could invite entertainers for the ceremony held after childbirth, that is, either six or ten days after having a child. My mother had cooked many dishes with the help of my aunt, my older half sister and my grandmother. In one of the big rooms in the house, a large white cloth was laid out on the floor. We sat around it and had our meal. In the afternoon, when it cooled down a bit, we sat in the garden for hours. Once the party was over and the guests were gone, I got on with my life as a new mother. It was hard but at the same time a rewarding life.

On day forty, we had a little get together again. But this time was not a happy occasion for me because my mother was going to Abadan to join my father. But they at least had decided to stay there for just one year rather than two. It was the very first time in my life that I had to live so far away from my parents.

When the train started rolling, I could not help but to cry out loud. I was not alone, my husband and my little son filled my life; yet, I felt completely abandoned and alone. It was exactly the same feeling I got twenty one years later, when I moved to Sweden. Only at that point, it was me who left my parents and the whole family behind.

Anyway, it took about six months until my parents came to Tehran for a visit. It was also the first time my father got to see his grandson, who was now six months old. He weighed 17.5 lbs., a cute and handsome boy, with blond hair and green eyes, round face, and a small mouth. He was amazingly sweet. Ten days later, when my parents were going to return to Abadan, I also took the baby and went with them. That was an unforgettable trip for me.

The train passed through the desert and small villages. It was a fascinating trip. I was awake all night and could not close my eyes; I wanted to see the black sky with its bright and twinkling stars and the half moon. Although it was winter, the weather was warm, almost hot in south of Iran. Abadan was a modern and well-run city, a city that was called little Paris with few foreigners, as well as oil industry experts, engineers, and workers who lived and worked there. I could see oil refineries from close range. We got to visit the great date plants on Mino Island and ate food with villagers and local people who lived in tents made of stems and banana leaves and date palms' leaves. They showed us how they climb up the trees and pick dates. We went boating on Arvandrod, the river between Iran and Iraq. We also visited the spectacular bazaar which was full of great and exclusive foreign goods. The whole trip and the visit were magnificent to me. Foreigners from all over the world, particularly England, lived in the city, made a great living, and lived a luxurious life. English was a common language spoken by all. The city's composition was mixed; there were nomads, ordinary people, and Europeans who lived in the same city under the blue dome which was clear and sunny during the day. Brilliant sunset, the combination of red color and shades of black, caressing the palm trees and making the dates glow at dusk. At night, the sky was pitch black and full of stars. The landscape was breathtaking.

Even though it was in the middle of the winter, the weather was still warm. We were invited to one of my father's colleagues to Mino Island. It was truly a paradise. We went boating on the river that comprises the border between Iran and Iraq. Time and again, Saddam Hussein had laid claim to the river and had brought the two countries close to the state of war. But with the United Nations' (UN) intervention, the matter had been resolved once and for all. In Abadan we were invited to a big date garden near the border of Iraq. The nomads cooked a great meal with date juice for us. It was a beautiful area, full of palm trees with large feathery leaves and hanging date bunches. In Abadan's bazaar, one could buy foreign goods imported from Kuwait and European countries. I bought gifts for my husband and little things for myself and my child. After eighteen days, my husband called and asked me to come home. I packed my bags and left my parents and went home by train. My older half brother, who worked and lived in Abadan with his wife, followed me so that I did not have to go alone. The trip took nearly twenty four hours. The train passed through small villages and large cities, desert, and mountains. It made a few stops on the way, which gave us some time to get off and enjoy the fresh air.

My son was six months old when I was told that I was pregnant for the second time. But one month after the good news, I lost the baby. I was bleeding for twenty days and did not know the cause!

I was embarrassed of course to tell my mother. After twenty days, I felt a strange pain in my back and stomach sometime in the middle of the night. My husband and I wondered what that could be. Then I felt like I had to go to the bathroom. In Iran, the toilet is a hole in the floor, and there is no toilet bowl to sit on. I felt something pass and at the same time my headache stopped. When I got back to the room I told my husband that I was better. Oddly enough, I did not know the ramifications of losing a foetus. I tried to go to bed and sleep without thinking of the consequences. Suddenly, the contractions started again, we looked at each other wondering what it could be. In a sad voice, my husband said that I was probably carrying twins and this would be the second foetus. He stopped me from going to the bathroom; instead, I put a towel in a small plastic tub and sat on it. I screamed and screamed as I was going through painful contractions. There was no foetus rather the placenta, which could have killed me. I was losing a lot of blood and was absolutely terrified. I was also worried sick about my son, thinking who would take care of him if something happened to me. My husband looked at me helplessly. I could not stop crying as I feared the worst. In panic, my husband ran down the stairs to ask his mother for help. He returned with his mother and his sister who were horrified to see all that blood. They immediately called the same midwife who lived in our neighbourhood to come and see me. When the midwife checked the placenta, she realized that a small part of the placenta must have been left inside me and needed to be taken out as soon as possible. Therefore, I had to be rushed to the hospital to undergo surgery. She called a cab and assured me that I would be fine once the remainder of the placenta was removed. It was a horrible night and a horrendous experience. I had no idea how it all came about and whether I would survive the ordeal.

### The country's progress

The country continued to grow and the economy flourished. Shah and his government claimed that the threat was over since the opponents were either arrested or banished. Those who were free dared not risk their lives by protesting ever again. People were afraid of the secret police, SAVAK. Those days, people were even afraid of their own shadows. There was no freedom of expression. Shah eagerly pushed for modernization which required significant changes. Many rapid changes were effected, mostly the transformation of old buildings and small streets to skyscrapers and highways. People's lifestyles changed, modernization and reform continued.

Women also got the chance to be successful. The way people dressed, especially women, changed drastically as well. Women started to go to universities. There were no obstacles for them to work anywhere they wanted. Slowly but surely, women reached higher positions. But there was still a big contrast between the rich and the poor. On one hand, there were the rich, educated, and modern folks, and on the other, there was poverty, illiteracy and fanaticism. In a rich country, it was shameful that so many suffered and lived in poverty. Shah was optimistic about the impact of modernization and he announced that within fifteen years, everyone will live a comfortable life. In Iran, there has never been a social welfare system like the one in Sweden, where everyone gets to have a roof over their head, clothes, and food on the table. As the economy prospered and the middle-class could afford traveling across Iran, they could see how poor villagers lived in small villages far away from civilization. Drinking water, sanitation, schools, hospitals, parks and playgrounds for kids were nothing short of a dream for the villagers. In villages in southern Iran, people still lived in huts. However, in big cities such as, Tehran, life was so different from that of the small villages.

### The birth of my daughter Mina

It was just seven days left until the Iranian New Year (Norouz). My mother was with me when I happened to feel the first contraction. Then the contractions became shorter and shorter. Because of an earlier miscarriage, my doctor had advised me to get to the hospital the minute the contractions started. I went with my husband to the hospital. My mother was at home to take care of my little son Ali, who was only nineteen months old, and my three-month-old sister.

When my father's project ended in southern Iran and they moved back to Tehran, we learned that my mother was pregnant, which I was not happy about since she was forty years old and already a grandmother. I was very angry with her and told her that it was embarrassing to have a child at that age. I was cruel to her. She tried to explain that she had no plans to have another kid and that it just happened. She really did not have much of a choice since abortion was forbidden. She gave birth to her daughter three months before my delivery. Now I had a sister whose age difference with me was similar to that between me and my children. Also there was a big age difference between her and her own parents, which perhaps explain the many times she stayed with me when she was a teenager. She was not happy in her own mother's company.

I was totally afraid of going through another child birth again and wondered how I would cope. I was worried that it could be another painful labour like the first time. The midwife and the specialist received me. After a thorough examination, they assured me that everything was normal and there was nothing to worry about. I was taken to the ward on a stretcher. Shortly thereafter, I felt like my water broke but looking at the bed sheet, it was full of blood. The panic set in and I screamed for the nurse. She came running and immediately went to get the doctor. It was one o'clock at night, I was taken to the delivery room, for the third time. I was now only eighteen years old. My doctor and the midwife did not want to waste any time since the situation was very critical for both my child and me. With the help of an injection, they induced labour and before I knew it, a beautiful little girl was born.

I named her Mina, a name I liked very much and would have liked to have as my name when I was a child. It is the name of a beautiful white flower. It is also a very poetic and popular name; famous Iranian poets like Hafez and Omar Khayam used the name 'Mina' in their poems frequently. Mina was really like a beautiful flower with green eyes and light blond hair.

She began to grow and Ali managed to gain a playmate. When Mina was only five months old, I became pregnant again for the fourth time.

### My son Reza was born

My father got another two-year contract in the province of Khorasan in east of Iran. Khorasan lies at the border of Afghanistan. Unfortunately, my mother-in-law and my sister-in- law also moved out. My husband, my two small children and I lived alone in a big house with fourteen rooms. A one hundred years old, castle-like house. Two parts of the house were one- story and the third part was a three-story building with large rooms. Under the latter part, there were two large basements that were simply scary to go into, especially in the evenings. One of the basements was at the time used as a kitchen, and the other as a cold cellar. At the back of that basement, there was an aqueduct with clean, clear, and drinkable water. Later, we build a wall so no one could get into the house through the open channel.

We lived on the third floor. And now I was alone with two small children and pregnant again. My grandmother came every day to visit me. When I was six months pregnant, I fell down the stairs which caused major complications through the rest of my pregnancy.

The placenta was damaged and had moved to the front of the foetus in my stomach, which led to excessive bleeding in the remaining months of my pregnancy. Then I was ordered bed rest by my doctor or risk losing the baby. But with two small children to look after, how could I? Now I was nineteen years old. We hired help to come every day to do the cleaning and the washing. My mother promised to come to Tehran and stay with me toward the end of my pregnancy term.

Unfortunately, early into my nine month pregnancy, I suffered a major haemorrhage.

I helped the cleaning lady with chores around the house. I then took a quick shower and when I came out, I felt a strange sensation on my legs as they became warm and damp. With wide eyes, I looked down and saw blood dripping on my feet. The floor was covered with blood. I cried desperately for help. The cleaning lady came running. We were both perplexed and could not think or do anything. My husband called my older half sister asking her to come and help me. He was beside himself.

I was rushed to the hospital. The doctor got permission from my husband to do a Caesarean section. I was given medication for pain while more tests were being done. That night went uneventful and I told my husband the next morning that more than likely, I would be able to come home. But apparently, the situation was worse than I thought. Upon medical examination, the bleeding started again. I lost so much blood that my blood pressure dropped to 70 over 50 and the baby's heartbeat stopped. My baby and I were in a critical state. The room was filled with midwives, doctors and nurses. At three o'clock in the afternoon, I was taken to the operating room to undergo Caesarean section with tubes going in and out of my arms and an oxygen mask on my face. I was mortified. I thought of my kids and I kept thinking, "I am young and do not want to die!" I was especially thinking of my little girl who was only fourteen months old with a broken leg in a cast.

Earlier in the month, she happened to fall down the stairs and broke her leg. She wanted to copy her oldest brother and go down the stairs that had fourteen steps and led to the front yard. The first thing I did was to take her to the nearest hospital. There I waited all day until she was x-rayed. Then they put a cast on her leg, all the way from her toe to above her knees. She could not sit still or lie down in bed, she was lively and wanted to play. Not long after the incident, she tried to walk by dragging her broken leg. It was hard for me to hold back my tears when I saw her struggling. She was and still is a strong person who can handle difficulties. In addition to the cast on her leg, she was suffering with chicken-pox.

My mother had promised me to be with me and take care of my children when I was due. However, none of us had any idea that I was going to have my baby so early that is, on the last day of the eighth month of pregnancy. I was simply alone and terrified as I was taken to the operating room.

I heard someone call my name while patting me on the cheek! I could hardly open my eyes. "Where am I?," I asked with a weak voice. "You are in the hospital, dear Akram. Are you okay? Try to wake up. You have slept enough," someone replied. I was in a strange room with walls painted in light blue colour. I had no idea where I was and how I had got there. The nurse was kind and tried to keep me awake.

"I want to move," I said.

She replied, "No, you should not do that."

"Why?"

"You have just had an operation."

"What for?"

Now I began to remember, I was pregnant and went into delivery!

When I touched my stomach, it was covered with bandages! I was scared. I wondered if I had lost my baby.

"What happened to my child?"

She replied, "Congratulations, you have a son."

"A son! How is my child, is he healthy?"

I wanted to see him. "Not now," She said; "You have to wait until tomorrow. Try to sleep; you are now tired and weak. Your son is okay, he just needs a little extra care because he was born a little too early."

The day after, I was released from the Intensive Care Unit and taken to the maternity ward to the same room I had been three months earlier. The next day, I saw my son. He was so small and so cute with black hair and black eyes, but very tiny. He weighed only 2.6 lbs. I burst into tears as I held him tight to my chest. Thank God, I could get to hold him in my arms, that he is healthy although underweight and weak. I stayed another eight days in the hospital since my physical conditions had not yet stabilized. I had problems with my blood pressure to the point that I had fainted quite a number of times. My doctor was worried about my health and wanted to keep me in the hospital for further care. It was hard for me to be away from my children that long. My grandmother was with them, but she was in no condition to take care of small children. She was quite old and she suffered from rheumatism and a constant pain in her hands. I think she must have been suffering with what is now known as fibromyalgia. With that in mind, I refused to stay for another week of care at the hospital.

I came home with my newborn son. My family's presence warmed my heart and gave me great strength that I am not alone. My husband had not told me that my daughter's chicken-pox had got worse. Two days after brining home the new baby, he also came down with chicken-pox. It was an exhausting and gruelling time of my life. I had come home to a series of problems that happened one after another, the handling of which could put a healthy person at risk. When I got home, I also found out that the cast on my daughter's leg had broken and that she had got a new one. But I kept looking at the new cast and thinking that something was not quite right and it sure was not. The cast was put on the wrong leg! I told my husband to take her to the hospital and get them to fix it. Because of the doctor's negligence, my daughter had to wear the cast for an additional month. The poor child had walked on the broken leg for almost five days before the mistake was corrected. Sloppy and incompetent doctors are unfortunately everywhere, even in today's time and in the developed countries.

As if the children's health was not troubling enough, I also got breast infection and could not breastfeed my baby. He screamed day and night of hunger. I was still in bed when my mother came to Tehran with her little girl. Ironically enough, despite all that was going on, she did not think that she needed to stay with me that long. She did not want to unnecessarily prolong her visit in Tehran since she was also worried about my father and my little brother. Therefore, she went back to Khorasan after barely ten day of stay in Tehran.

Now, with three small children and suffering terribly with poor health condition and low blood pressure, I was left on my own. I had the occasional company of my grandmother, as well as the help from my cleaning lady. If it was not for them helping me, I could absolutely not have gotten by in my day-to-day living. My husband went to work every day and was worried about my situation. It took an awfully long time for me to get back on my feet and to somewhat recover. So, life continued with looking after my children and getting back to my sewing course, which I had started during pregnancy. It was a two-year diploma course that I finished successfully. Now I could sew clothes, jackets, coats and suits, and even do embroidering and making silk flowers. But I already had so much to do with raising three small kids and a household to look after that I could not contemplate working in that field. Moreover, my husband had great income as a lawyer and there was no need for me to work. Although women were free to work or study, it was still not widely common, nor appreciated by men to have women work for the purposes of supporting the family.

The children grew rapidly. Ali and my little daughter started kindergarten. At first, Ali was extremely excited to go to the kindergarten. However, half way into the year, he absolutely refused to go to the kindergarten. One day I went to the nursery to pick up my kids a little earlier when I discovered why my son was no longer interested in going to the kindergarten. The teacher used to force the little angels, whose care was put in her hands, to take afternoon naps while seated at the round table that was in the middle of the room. The children had to rest their heads on the table or on their folded arms. Some children fell asleep and those who could not were forced to sit still and not move. The two young teachers used to also eat most of the children's food and give them very little. I was always surprised to see my children coming home from daycare hungry and tired every day. Besides, my daughter got infected at the kindergarten. She got white spots and ulcer in her mouth, which was painful and discomforting, and she could not eat or drink anything. Therefore, we stopped sending our children to kindergarten completely. My little son Reza was only four months old when my husband's mother died. Her death was a very sad event for all of us. She was the kindest mother-in-law in the whole world.

But we were still grieving her death, when the country was hit by a great tragedy.

### The natural disaster in Khorasan

In addition to all the problems at home, I was also concerned and worried about my parents and my siblings who lived more than a thousand miles away from us in the province of Khorasan in east of Iran. The city that my parents lived in and my father worked in, plus a few other cities and small villages were ruined by an earthquake that levelled more than half of that area to the ground, killing more than one third of the population in a single second. Twenty thousand people lost their lives at once. All buildings and roads were destroyed. The earthquake had a magnitude of 8.2 on the Richter scale. In Tehran, we had no idea about the incident until we heard the news on the radio. In the evening, I frantically flipped through the pages of the newspaper. I was beside myself with worry about my family. We immediately sent a telegram to the disaster stricken city of Boshroye that my father worked in and inquired about their status.

It took three horrifying days and three restless nights until we got the reply that they were alive and on their way back to Tehran. During those three days, I was with my grandmother, my aunt, my uncle, my half siblings and their families so that we could keep each other company and support one another emotionally. The wait was unbearable and the worry was killing us. The room was full of newspapers with pictures of people who had been trapped or buried under the rubble. People were looking for their loved ones in the worst affected areas. Many towns and villages were impacted and international aid from around the world was being sent to the area. I remember cross referencing the names of all the towns and villages that were mentioned in the evening news on TV with their locations on a map. I needed to find out if those places ruined by earthquake were in the vicinity of the city where my parents lived. We saw on TV as Shah and the Queen visited the area.

On day three, the doorbell rang. I looked out the window wondering who it was. As soon as I saw a guy in uniform from the Telegraph office with a letter in his hand, I began to tremble. My heart started pounding and all I could pray for was for them to be safe and sound.

My husband opened the door and got the telegram. He came up to the room with the letter in his hand. None of us dared open it. My husband read the joyous message, they were alive and uninjured, and they were coming back to Tehran the following week. Now we started to cry again, but this time of joy while, our thoughts were still with the other victims.

### The coronation, 26 October 1967

The country was filled with joy and celebrations. Shah's great expectations were met.

He, who had waited all those years to have a crown prince, had finally succeeded. The whole country was adorned with flowers, paper garlands, and flags. The celebration went on for several days. On the streets and at the squares, people were treated to cookies and juice. Live music in national parks was entertaining. State dignitaries and guests from around the world were invited to Iran. The King, the Queen, and their seven-year old crown prince went through the town in their royal horse-carriage in front of the procession. Traffic police had blocked off the crowded streets to allow the procession through. We were at home and watched the live broadcast on TV. The royal procession reached the Golestan castle; an old castle that for decades had witnessed many coronations including the father of Shah, Reza Shah.

Takhte Tavous, the majestic Peacock Throne, is made of gold and adorned with diamonds, pearls, rubies, sapphires and priceless jewels.

The throne was brought to Pars or Persia a thousand years ago in a war between Nader Shah Afshar, one of the former Persian kings, and India, and placed in the castle more than 300 years ago. All kings of the Qajar dynasty and then Pahlavi were crowned in the same castle, and sat on the same throne. Queen Farah was crowned by Shah and was henceforth given the title Shahbano (empress) instead of queen. After the ceremony, they traveled again in a golden carriage drawn by white horses to another castle to celebrate the event. They went in a procession across the town, where cheering spectators on both sides of the streets could catch a glimpse of them. It was a golden time for Shah who felt safer than before, and was therefore, confident that his son will be crowned one day and the dynasty will continue forever.

The country was developing. Life, especially for women, had got better. Despite the occasional criticism and objection of those against women rights and freedoms, women continued to enjoy their new-found opportunities.

A large number of girls and women were admitted to universities. They managed to become ministers and chief executive officers (CEO). They were elected as members of parliament and senators. There were female governors. First female ambassador was appointed and sent to Denmark. The non-governmental organizations (NGO) and private companies were filled by women officers. Female professors taught at universities, and there were women lawyers and judges. Nobel Prize winner in 2003, Shirin Ebadi, was the first female judge in Shah's time. There were female surgeons, doctors, nurses, lab technicians, police officers, army officers, meteorologists, scientists, pilots, flight attendants, opera singers, artists, performers, and so forth. The economy was booming. Mixed schools became increasingly common. There were regularly opening ceremonies by Shah and the Queen to launch a new factory, a dam, or a university in different parts of the country. Oil sales gave the country the opportunity to grow. The formation of the Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC) triggered a political backlash and caused unrest in the European countries. But it gave Iranians a sense of security and hope for their children's future.

Shah believed in his plans and in people's support. However, he discounted the impact of external forces and domestic opposition.

Now it was time for us to move into a newly built house with four thousand three hundred square feet area. The house was a two-story building with large rooms and a big front yard in a newly developed area between Tehran and Shemiran.

Shemiran was located at the foot of the Alborz mountain ranges in northern Tehran. A place which in my childhood time was a small village with cool air, and small orchards. There also existed many wide, narrow, long, and short rivers, as well as small waterfalls. When I was a kid, we used to go camping in Shemiran. To get there, we used to go by horse and buggy or by wooden buses. But when Tehran began to grow, Shemiran became a part of the city. Our new house was up on a hill in an area called Abbass Abad.

It was not yet fully populated when we moved there. But as a result of uncontrolled population movement from small towns to cities, and poor urban planning, more and more houses and shops were built in that areas, as well as everywhere else in Tehran to the point that in 2011, more than 17 million people lived in Tehran.

When we moved in, we had great views of the city to the South. So we could see oil refinery with its flaming torch around the clock, which at that time was located outside Tehran. The house we lived in was great. It felt nice to see the city at night from our bedroom window as it lay under our feet. Abbass Abad is a hilly area, and Tehran itself is situated on the mountain slope of the Mount Damavand with 19685 feet altitude.

Mount Damavand is an old dormant volcano which may at any time erupt and remind the world of the Pompeii eruption. There are many researchers who have warned of the risk that the volcano could erupt, but no one seems to be concerned as the city continues to grow. At any rate, because of Tehran's location on a mountain side, a steep slope surrounded by mountain chains, the city enjoys good climate conditions.

### My son Madjid was born

In the sixth month of my pregnancy with my fourth child, I took driving lessons in order to get my driver's license. Soon I was going to have four children, hence the need to have a driver's license. It was on the twelfth day of the second month of summer, corresponding to August, when my fourth child was born. The weather was warm, 104°F, so hot that no one could stand it. The heat was hard to tolerate as I was in my ninth month of pregnancy.

Everyone, especially I, was concerned and worried how the child birth would go. My husband was worried about my health. He was hoping that there would be no need for another Caesarean section. Fortunately, it turned out that the worries were unwarranted as things went well and very different from what we, including my midwife, had anticipated. I had the easiest childbirth ever. My son was born in the middle of the night. He was a sweet and beautiful boy. After three days in the maternity ward, I came home with my newborn son. Now I had three sons and a daughter.

Life would have become more difficult for me if I did not have a housekeeper. My father worked in Teheran and because of that, I could also get help from my mother particularly, when I was allowed to return to driving school to resume my driving lessons. My baby was only twelve days old when I was scheduled to do my driving test, which turned out unsuccessful as I did not pass the test. After two months of waiting to get re-tested, I got my driver's license in October 1969.

Now I had all the freedom in the world and all the opportunity to take my children to playgrounds, shopping malls, or to visit my family.

### First accident

The time had come to buy a car. When we came out of the car dealership with the keys in our hand, my husband asked if we could drive around a little. I was very careful driving since I only had, at that point, only 75 hours of driving lessons and did not want to risk it. The following day, my husband suggested that we go and visit a colleague of his, who was also a renowned lawyer. It was later in the afternoon when we got on the way, and we encountered no problems getting there. Back then, there was really not a whole lot of traffic on the roads like nowadays. On the way home, everything was going well; I crossed an intersection and headed down the hill on Abbass Abad Street when a car going through the intersection in high speed hit our car. That was the first time I realized that apparently traffic laws were meant to be disregarded and they were just good to know for the exam! Even in 2011, there are still many instances of total disregard for traffic laws, even in developed countries. The car was taken to the garage and it took one month before the car was ready for pick up. I was a bit hesitant to go pick up the car alone.

My husband looked at me and said, "It's your car and I have nothing to do with it. Don't be afraid if you want to become a good driver. I believe you can do it so just believe in yourself. You are a brave woman and I have never seen you to be scared. I want you to be an independent woman." Now it was time to really try my skills and prove to everyone, especially to my husband, that I did not need any help. I wanted to be independent and brave, traits that came handy years later in my life.

At the beginning of my driving experience, we only went as far as nearby cities like Karaj and Ghazvin which were about two hundred kilometres from Tehran. From Karaj, one can drive to the city of Chalus along the Caspian Sea. The road passes through high mountains with deep valleys and it also passes by the Karaj dam. I drove carefully and slowly up those very steep slopes of the mountains and made my way to the small villages scattered in and along the mountains. In addition to weekend excursions, I started driving my husband to and from work every day so as to get more practice and improve my driving skills.

New Year (Norouz) 1970 was approaching. The atmosphere was magical and the weather was starting to get warm. In the old days, people stayed home and received guests. But gradually people began to break with tradition and went traveling to the northern or southern regions of Iran, or visited the holy city of Mashhad.

We also decided to go to the city of Bandar Abbass in southern Iran, which was located far from Tehran. We packed our bags and got on the road. The road passed through desert and mountains. The first city on the way was Qom, a small holy town bustling with life and full of people, where shops are open for visitors twenty-four hours a day.

Qom is a religious city and it is the site of a Holy Shrine, which is visited by religious Shiite Muslims from around the world. The Iranian revolution of 1979 got started from that very town.

Qom, which is located at the edge of a salt desert and by the Great Salt Lake, is also known for its hand-woven silk carpets, sweet and crunchy cookies (Sohan) that taste somewhat like Daim chocolate, fruits, and pomegranates.

There, the lights shine all the time in the minarets that are nearby a mosque, and one cannot help but notice the arches that are covered with ceramic and gold. We spent a few hours in that city just to get some rest and stretch our legs.

At sunset when the light gradually disappeared, we continued our journey to Isfahan, the ancient city in southern Iran along the desert, which is famous for its historic buildings, crafts, and its popular carpets. Afterwards, we had dinner in an old castle restaurant and then, we continued towards Nain, another town in the middle of the desert that is famous for its carpets.

My husband drove all night on the long and narrow roads so I could get some rest. The road was dark and the sky was pitch black. At dawn, we came to a small Persian traditional teahouse in the middle of the desert where we ate breakfast. I could not take my eyes off the beauty of the sun as it was rising in the sky; it was an absolutely magnificent view and I still remember it. We were extremely tired of the long journey, and we still had a long way to drive on those narrow gravel roads ahead of us. Despite all the recent developments, most of the country's roads were still dirt roads which made it dangerous to drive on particularly, as the number of cars on the roads increased. The road between southern Iran and Tehran was full of large trucks and trailers, buses, and civilian pattern cars.

After an hour of driving on the narrow dirt road, our trip came to an abrupt end since we got hit by a passenger bus. The bus was driving too fast in the opposite direction and had attempted to pass an oil-carrying tractor-trailer. The road was so narrow that the two vehicles had great difficulty driving past one another. While there were no signs indicating places where one could or could not pass, it was quite clear that such a stretch was not a suitable place for taking over another care. Extensive damage was done to our car but we thankfully, escaped injury.

I had to leave my family at that spot and travel a hundred kilometres on a passenger bus to the town of Nain to report the accident to the gendarmerie and bring an officer to the scene of the accident to document the incident. We were trapped a whole day in that hot desert. The situation was not only wearisome but also frustrating since the bus driver did not want to accept responsibility for the accident. He was also angry that a tiny, young woman was driving on the roads which, according to him, a lot of men did not dare to do. When he hit our car, he got off the bus and started to insult me. He said it was better if I had let my husband drive the car while I took care of my children. According to him, women were better off at home and in the kitchen, leaving other tasks especially, driving on dangerous roads to men!

He said that since I had got my license for only six months, I was an inexperienced driver. I got really angry at him and his nonsense of putting me down. So I told him that with all his experience, he should have known better not to endanger other people's lives including his passengers by trying to pass another car, when it was clearly impossible to do just because he was a man!

Despite his attempts to put the blame on me though, the evidence clearly proved that he was at fault. When all the necessary paperwork were signed and completed, I was advised to let one of the bus drivers drive our car back to Tehran. The police officer suggested that I should, at least, let one of his colleagues drive us to a nearby town. My response was 'no' because I figured that if I let someone else drive the car, then I would lose my self-confidence and may not dare to drive in future. After a long and hard day, we turned around with a completely wrecked car heading back to Tehran.

On the way back and somewhere before Isfahan, we got a flat tire. None of us, neither my husband nor I, dared even go out to flag down any car because it was pitch dark in that desert, and there were packs of wolves howling in the surrounding area. Suddenly two police cars that were on patrol along the road spotted us and came to our rescue. I went in one of the police cars back to Nain to get the tire fixed, while the officers in the second car stayed put with my husband and children. Later on, they escorted us all the way to Isfahan. There, we had to sleep in a tourist tent by Jolfa River in that beautiful and historic city. With New Year celebrations around the corner, there were many tourists in the area. We were lucky that the police officers found us that temporary lodging and got us something to eat. I was tired but probably more emotionally than physically. Our trip had come to an end, and given the circumstances, we knew that we had to head back home as soon as possible.

Next day, we got on the road again. Driving toward Tehran, we passed through the city of Saveh, a city located at the edge of the desert between Tehran and Isfahan. Saveh is a small, old, historic city. Carpets and pomegranate are the city's two most popular and well-known products. We drove along a narrow, curvy and bumpy road with very bad asphalt for quite some time before we hit a snow storm. Our car, which was a brand new station wagon at the start of the journey, had become just a piece of junk due to the earlier accident. The hood of the car was sitting in the trunk, the front-end was covered by a blanket, which was blown away in the storm, and the windshield wipers were not working. It was a very unsafe situation, and there was nothing we could do except keeping our fingers crossed that nothing else would happen. I was petrified and wanted to scream, but I did not want my children to get scared so I had to control myself. I tried to lighten up the mood and cheer up my children by getting them to think about the New Year celebration that we were going to have at home with our family and friends. It was exactly the day before the New Year that our awful trip finally came to an end. We returned home with a wrecked car, disappointed and tired, yet, happy that we made it back without any injuries. The car could be repaired, but if something had happened to us, especially to my children, I could have never forgiven myself.

We got on with the New Year celebration and life went back to normal. After our doomed road trip, I became even more determined to deal with challenges in life with outmost courage and strength; a willingness to dare and to take risks, which proved vital at the time of our flee from the country after the revolution in 1979.

I was stubborn, ambitious, and had no interest in listening to others telling me what to do. I learned early on in life that there was no one who could help me but me. I carried on driving anywhere and everywhere, day and night, short and long distances. In fact, I drove around the entire country from northern Iran along the Caspian Sea to southern Iran along the Persian Gulf, from Khorasan (at the border of Iran and Afghanistan) in the east to Kurdistan (at the border of Iran and Iraq) in the west, as well from north-western Iran to Azerbaijan and its capital Tabriz (at the border of Iran and Turkey). The only provinces we did not visit were Sistan and Baluchestan. To get to those provinces, one had to travel through desert which was extremely risky. Besides, we were warned by the police not to travel there by car not only because of the dangerous roads, but also because of the armed bandits and smugglers in the area. They told us to avoid driving in that area if we did not want to get robbed or worse murdered. Therefore, we refrained from traveling by car to that part of Iran, which is in the southwest region of Iran and borders Pakistan.

Aside from our immense interest in seeing the entire country, we also wanted to ensure that our children had a chance to learn about their own history, culture, and traditions before they lived elsewhere in the world since back then, we did have plans to move abroad, primarily, to the United States. In addition to visiting the major cities, we deliberately covered every small village and drove on every narrow, unpaved road so as to provide them with a full picture. It was quite an experience to see the contrast between modern cities and primitive villages. The lack of clean water, hygiene, medical care or medical facilities, electricity, and schools were mind-boggling.

On one of our trips, we went all the way to Firoozkoh which was the connection point between the southern and northern parts of Iran by means of a long railway that was built in Reza Shah's time. On the long, narrow, winding, gravel roads between Tehran and the province of Mazanderan by the Caspian Sea, we came across a sign pointing to a small village called Alasht that was located in the middle of a valley surrounded by mountains. We wanted to visit the village that had only a few muddy houses and a small teahouse, and at the same time, was the birth place of Reza Shah.

The house he was born in consisted of only two small rooms with some very modest furniture. An oil lamp by the window, an old Persian rug, a small and old wooden cradle plus a guest book for visitors to sign in. At the teahouse, there was only one person namely, the owner who was a small, slim and skinny woman, and a mother of ten children.

For three years, I had taken a break from being pregnant or breastfeeding, which gave me the chance to pursue other things. I went back and finished my high school that was interrupted due to getting married at a young age. I also managed to go on all those trips with my family around the country. As well, I continued keeping busy with taking care of my four little children and running the household. Now it was time for my oldest son Ali to start school.

We thought about sending him to the private Italian school Andishe (Don Bosco), which was close to home and was run by Catholic priests. A prestigious and modern school where the wealthy and famous Iranians liked to send their children. The school was only for boys between the ages of 7 and 18, and the registration of children could occur as early as their birth day. It consisted of elementary, secondary, and high schools. Besides all the compulsory subjects, the children also learned English and Italian. Additionally, they had a guaranteed place at university.

When we went to register our son at that school, we found out that it was full. Therefore, we had no choice but to register him at a public school in the neighbourhood. The first year went well and he finished first year with best grades. However, the second year turned into a nightmare for him and us too. We were shocked by what we found out about the school later on. The same year my daughter was also starting school at a private school for boys and girls.

Boy's schools always started and ended half an hour before the girl's schools. At first, we did not notice that Ali would leave home and return at the same time as his sister. Their schools were close to each other and on the opposite sides of the same street. It was strange that he also did not have any homework to do, which according to him was due to teacher's absence on the account of being sick. On the third day, we became suspicious and decided to call the school's principal and find out why they had not hired a substitute teacher. To our surprise, we found out that the story we were given by our son was not true and instead, he had been skipping school. This came as a shock to me. I was worried where he could be spending his time so as soon as he came home that afternoon, his father and I sat him down and asked him for an explanation. After much hesitation, he finally told us that he got a hard beating from his female teacher so, he got scared and disappeared from the school. After all, he was only a child and could not be faulted. I only wished that he had told us about that earlier. The next day, we went to his school. My husband confronted the principal for being irresponsible, for failing to inform us of our son's absence, as well as being incompetent in providing a safe environment for children at school. We insisted in meeting with Ali's teacher to give her a chance to explain her actions. At first, she tried to play on our sympathy by telling us about her hardships both emotionally and financially. While saddened by her troubles, we told her that none of that gave her the excuse of physically abusing children and harming them. She had no right to mistreat any child including our son. She had for instance, put pencils in between our son's fingers and squeezed his fingers hard just because he was left-handed, and according to her, children had to write with their right hand. She then, went on to say that if parents were negligent to correct their children's mistake, then it was the teacher's task . . .

At this point, my husband had enough and did not let her finish her sentence. He told her that she was going to be reported to the board of education for her appalling conduct toward a nine-year old child, and for her gross negligence in not informing the principal of the child's absence. She, all of a sudden, burst into tears and begged for forgiveness. She pleaded with us not to file a report against her. The principal immediately arranged for my son to be transferred to another class and promised to take his responsibilities seriously and to do a much better job in future.

### My son Iraj was born

In the second month of summer in 1972, my fifth child was born. It is quite interesting that my last two children were born on the exact same day of the same month while three years and two hours apart.

After his birth, I had five children to look after while pursuing my education. My parents moved from province to province. My grandmother died before my son was born. My husband was busy with his job as always. The home was usually full of invited and uninvited guests or my children's friends. I was on the road all the time to buy what the kids wanted like bicycles, toys and clothing. While my husband had the financial responsibility to provide for the family, everything else was my responsibility. When the children were sick or hurt, I was the one taking them to the hospital. I organized their birthday and graduation parties without my husband's involvement. I also drove my husband to and from work and drove my kids to school. Registration of kids at school or changing their schools was all my responsibility. Everything was in fact my job. In summers, I used to take the kids to a big sport stadium called Amjadiye in Tehran for their swimming lessons and martial art classes. The two older children also took music lessons and I used to take them to those classes as well.

Driving day and night, on smooth or rough roads, in the course of our trips around the country, taking the car to the garage for repair and maintenance were all in all my job.

My husband was busy with work and could not help me or accompany me anywhere. So I had to do everything on my own. I switched my oldest son and my daughter's schools to a mixed, private school that had an excellent reputation and was not too far from home. Once they started at that school, there was no need for me to drive them to and from school as they were now picked up and dropped off by the school bus.

When the school was built, it was planned that the crown prince would begin his schooling there. However, this caused quite a stir in the Ministry of Education, and among the administrators of other well-known private schools who worried about the impact of that decision and its ramifications on their school ranking and their businesses. Therefore, a school was built inside the palace for strictly the crown prince, the royal family's children, and children of high-ranking government officials.

When my youngest son, Iraj, was barely one year old, we packed the car to go on a tour of four provinces west and north of Iran, Kurdistan, South and East Azerbaijan, Gillan and Mazanderan. We were going to visit a number of large cities such as Kermanshah, Sanandaj, Rezaiyeh, Tabriz, Ardabil, also all the cities around the Caspian Sea and then back to Tehran from Chalus mountainous road, a journey of over two thousand kilometres.

On the way to Kermanshah, we came across a sign for Toysirkan, a small town referred to as 'the West's paradise'. So we decided to visit the town. The road was narrow and winding. After a long drive, we arrived at a small town with one street and a few shops, but with gigantic fruit farms. We were unbelievably tired and terribly hungry. In this town, there was only a small inn, and since I could not drive any more, we checked into that inn for the night.

The next day as we were leaving, the inn-keeper suggested we take a different road going back rather than the one we had taken coming into town. So many years later, when I think back at that day, I am still angry at that man for his advice and angry at my husband for listening to him. An advice that nearly got us killed. After an hour driving on the mountainous road, I ended up on a dangerous uphill heading to the top of the mountains and ultimately at some point, the steep rocky roads became more and more impossible to drive on. All of a sudden, the car started to overheat once we reached the top of the hill. We were at a standstill at a very high elevation and the wild winds kept shaking the car's body. None of us dared getting off the car to open the car's hood, fearing that the wind would blow us away. The children were frightened and began to cry; I was panicking myself and my heart was pounding. I asked God for help. No one else was on that hellish road. It was just us. I noted that it was just a matter of time before we ended up falling off the cliff by the force of the gravity. So I drove up slowly on the edge of the steep cliff, which was frightening as we could see how far up we were from the valley that lay deep down below us. I continued on the road and I had to, literally, fight an uphill battle to keep to the road and to calm down the kids. In sheer terror, we finally managed to make it through. It was pure luck that I did not pass out behind the wheel out of anxiety and stress. At sunset, we got close to a small village where we saw a shepherd who was on his way to the village. He looked surprised to see a car on that road since according to him, that was an abandoned road that no one traveled any more. He was curious as to how we had ended up on that road, and he urged us to get off that road before darkness when the wolves come out in packs. We were frightened. The car's fuel was running low. We were all tired and hungry. I could not even breastfeed my little son Iraj. The shepherd pointed to a small building in the far distance and told us that it was a police station, where we could perhaps get some fuel if there was any to be spared. When we arrived at the police station, the officers bombarded us with questions about our business there and our reason for being on that road and so forth. According to them, the only ones who dared use that road were opium smugglers. My husband told them the story of how we ended up there. In addition, he introduced himself and mentioned that his brother was a general in the army. Once they realized that obviously we were not criminals and that they were mistaken, then the mood was very different. They helped us with what they could and gave us fuel, water, and rye bread. They told us that we were two hundred kilometres from the nearest town. At last, the nightmare was over. We had managed to get off that road safe and sound.

Anyway, our journey continued to other cities. A few days later we came across another village called Mobarakabad near Kermanshah. The village was peaceful and beautiful, surrounded by large and small orchards. The weather was cool and enjoyable. A wide stream with a spring in the middle went all the way through the village. Women were busy washing their laundries or dishes in the stream. Women in rainbow-coloured costumes, with lots of sequins and embroidery, walked gracefully on the small muddy and gravely road. They carried buckets of water on their shoulders or large copper bowls full of food and fruits on their heads. We ate fried eggs and bread in the village's small and primitive teahouse. The water we were drinking was clear and cold. Everything was going well until I asked the teahouse owner where I could fill the water-tank I had in the car. He pointed to the creek and said, "You can fill the water tank there." My heart fell. I could not believe my eyes. All worried, I asked him where he got the water we drank. He pointed again to the same place. That was all we needed on this trip after everything else we had been through. We continued to drive without taking any water from that filthy and contaminated creek. All the big talk about development and prosperity in Iran and not a sign of that in small and remote villages, only in the capital and in the other large cities.

The day after, I woke up in the hotel's bedroom feeling dizzy, burning with fever, pain all over my body, and terrible stomach cramps. Strange, I had become so ill over night.

I wondered what had happened to me. I could not even keep my head straight, it felt so heavy. I had high fever and I was burning up. I wondered how I was going to drive. We were a long way from home and even from our family doctor. The only solution was to see a doctor in the local area. After a routine examination, I was diagnosed with stomach flu and I was told that all I needed was rest and antibiotics. Under the circumstances, we decided that it was best to head home. So the next day, we got on the road. Although I was feeling better, for some reasons, I had a suspicion that what I was suffering from was more than just a stomach flu. A week after returning home, I was still exhausted with burning fever and I was extremely weak. One day I got a bad bout of extremely high fever. Unfortunately, my family doctor who worked in a private clinic, where all the doctors were trained in Germany, could not diagnose the disease. At first, it was thought that I had influenza. After a week, the treatment proved ineffective and my health deteriorated. Since I could not keep food in my stomach, I had high fever, and I was constantly nauseous, I got weaker and weaker by the day. The new diagnosis was kidney stones, which according to the doctor required immediate surgery. At that point, I had enough. I went for a second opinion and demanded a test be taken before any surgery was done. I was close to death and no one thought I would make it to another day. Finally, through proper blood test, it was found that I suffered from typhoid, which no doubt I got from drinking that tainted water in the village of Mobarakabad in Kurdistan. I got the right diagnosis thanks to switching doctors. I could not trust negligent doctors whose only concern was to fill their own pockets without any regards for the patient's health. Doctors are under oath to perform their job diligently not carelessly. The new doctor forbade me to eat solid food and put me on a liquid diet. He also advised against breastfeeding my son, something that the other doctors did not mention at all. Fortunately, my parents lived in Tehran at the time so; my mother could help me take care of my children. I was bedridden for three months before I got back on my feet.

### 2500 year anniversary, 1971

The country was once again filled with joy as it was gearing up for celebrations, even if only on the surface. The province of Fars and in particular, the city of Shiraz where Cyrus the Great Emperor lies, was the scene of extravagant parties. Shah's goal was to celebrate the 2500-year-old Persian Empire's history. He wanted to pay homage to Cyrus, the great emperor, for the freedom and security he had provided for the country and his endeavours to establish and promote the concept of human rights and freedom. In his kingdom, people were free to keep their religion and live in peace together. He freed Jews from torture and oppression and moved them to Iran, where they could live in peace and freedom.

Those attending the 2500-year of Persian history's celebrations were members of the royal families, presidents, and prime ministers from around the world. Enormous amount of money was spent on the celebration despite the protest of the poor and the communists. Out of fear of the security service and imprisonment, however, many dared not voice their opinion.

A grand and stylish ceremony was held for more than ten days. Large regal tents were set up near the Persepolis where the festivities took place. Iran's 2500-year history was illustrated in the form of a long parade at the Persepolis. The massive funding that went toward the celebration could have better been spent on education or welfare for people. If we had the highly developed education and social welfare systems of Sweden to eradicate illiteracy and poverty simultaneously, the country would not have witnessed the uprising that eventually led to the dreadful revolution.

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### Learning to fly, 1974

One evening in October, we were watching TV when suddenly; I noticed a commercial about Imperial Aero Club which was offering courses in flying and pilot training. I turned around to my husband and said, "Look, they can fly and I'm sitting here happy that I can drive a car."

"Do you want to fly?," Asked my husband.

"Yes. Why not? At least, I can give it a try and see if I can do it," I replied.

He nodded and said, "First, think about it, you are the mother of five children and they may decide not to sign you up."

That evening after everyone went to sleep, I stayed up thinking about flying in the clear blue sky, or flying close to the stars at night—the stars I used to gaze at all my life—before I fell asleep. It felt wonderful to have been able to prove myself to others especially, to my dear mother. Up to that point, I mostly wanted to show everyone else how capable and competent I was. This time, however, was a little bit different. I no longer wanted to prove anything to any body, but I wanted to do something that was a bit out of the ordinary. Much like when I got my driver's license or got on the road traveling around the country; those were things that were not common for women to do.

The next day, I dropped off my husband at work and I did not waste any time. As soon as I got home, I started calling around to find the flight school's telephone number. Ultimately, I managed to get the phone number for the Imperial Aero Club. I immediately contacted the Imperial Aero Club, and I spoke with Colonel Afshar Tuos who was in charge of the flight school at the Ghale-Morghi military airport. He agreed to meet with me at ten in the morning the following day at the Imperial Aero Club headquarters which was located at the Mehr-Abad international airport. I was over the moon and could not wait to tell my husband about it. In the evening when I told my husband, he was speechless. He told me he knew that I was a type of person who would not give up on her dreams, but, still, he could not believe how fast I had got on with making it happen. With some hesitation, he asked me whether I was sure about flying. I looked at him disappointedly and replied, "Don't you believe I can do this?" He told me that he had no doubt that I could do well, and that he would support me all the way.

The next day, my husband and I went to the appointment. The Colonel was a nice and middle-aged man. He was happy to see a woman interested in taking flying lessons. He talked about the process and mentioned that learning to fly is costly, difficult, and somewhat dangerous. My husband and I assured him that we had thought it through, and that I was ready to start as soon as I was admitted to the programme. He seemed to have no objections especially, since I was 28 years old, until he found out that I was the mother of five children. At that moment, he wanted me to completely forget about flying for the sake of my children and find less hazardous profession. As he put it, I was to look for a type of job that suited women such as, health care, education, or office administration. It took an hour of negotiations before he agreed to enrol me at the school, and even then, with a condition. He wanted me to first start with gliders and get my license before pursuing lessons on single and double-engine planes. He contacted the Doshan-Tapeh military airfield to arrange a meeting for me with General Ghomghani, the airfield commander, and Colonel Waseghi, the head of the gliding school, who would assign my flight instructor and book flight times for me. Then, Colonel Afshar Tuos handed me the necessary paperwork and wished me luck. I had managed to win my case and it felt amazing.

After spending a sleepless night evaluating my decision, I headed to the airport to meet with Colonel Waseghi. He greeted me and took me to General Ghomghani's office to get the process started. During our conversation, the general asked me when I wanted to start and I replied, "Immediately!" He appreciated my enthusiasm and agreed to have me as a student on the condition that I first do a test-flight with an instructor, and see if I get approved by the instructor. The test flight was scheduled for the following day, and I was given some practical advice by the Colonel to dress comfortably and not wear high-heel shoes. He also mentioned that my children could come to the airport with me. He then introduced me to my future flying instructor, a retired Air Force officer called Falak-Nazi, who welcomed me hesitantly to the flight school.

I started my flying lessons with great intensity and on a fast pace. I was rushing to get my glider's license so as to be allowed to move on to fly with the single and double-engine planes. The airfield was a busy place as it was buzzing with all sorts of people from staff to students and spectators. Flight hours ranged between 20 and 30 minutes to several hours depending on the weather conditions and the type of exercises that were carried out during the training. The price for a half-hour flight was incredibly low. It was between three toman (Iranian currency) for students and five toman for adults (at the time, equivalent to three and five dollars). The first flight for me was just a test-flight to see whether I could handle being in the air and at such high altitude. My instructor and I jumped into a two-seater plane with dual controls. Since gliders have no engines, we were towed with a winch before we could gain altitude and the cable could be released. Ultimately, we were in the air experiencing my very first flight. The plane flew like a bird in the blue sky over the beautiful landscapes of Tehran. The silence was total; it was an unforgettable flight experience! Though short, it was just like a dream for me. We landed on the ground after 30 minutes of being in the air. Now it was time for the school's commandant and my instructor to make their assessment. It was up to them to decide whether I could live my dream or not. I was determined to carry on all the way so as to become a commercial pilot, and I guess that was the reason they wanted to ensure that I had what it took to get there. My instructor left the field and went to the office without saying a word to me. Those brief moments seemed like an eternity for me. Finally, he came out with Colonel Waseghi. The two men welcomed me as a student and gave me my flight schedule.

Each day I took my kids to the Doshan-Tappeh airfield. First, I flew a number of hours with my regular instructor and then, other instructors. Besides the actual training on the plane, I also had to take a number of ground lessons. In order to get my license, I had to pass the ground test, which I did with flying colours, and then, I had to fly the plane by myself. I was given a date and timing for the second portion of my test. Now the time had come for me to put my skill and knowledge to the test and fly my first solo, which I did flawlessly. In the beginning, I could not believe that I flew the big iron bird alone in the air. When I landed on the ground and got off the plane, I ran happily and proudly toward the crowd that was waiting for me on the airfield to congratulate me as a certified pilot in the traditional way of throwing buckets of water on me. I was trembling and crying of joy; a glorious moment and a sense of accomplishment came over me that stayed with me throughout the rest of my life. Afterwards, I called my husband and gave him the good news.

When I got home, without having time to change out of my wet clothes, we drove to my brother-in-law's home, who was a three star general in the army. My husband was so proud that he wanted to share his excitement with his brother. My parents were happy, but not pleased with what I had embarked on since they could only focus on the negative. They were concerned and they could not stop worrying about me no matter what I said. As for the rest of the family, friends, and acquaintance, reactions were different from negative to positive and varied from person to person.

July 26, 1974, a week after my solo flight, I got my certificate. What a glorious feeling, I hovered between joy and pride.

There were always visitors from all ages and all walks of life at the flight school. One day I received orders to prepare to fly an extra flight; I did not know why until I saw the Minister of Culture and Education there. I flew before him as a show of the flight school's effectiveness that even I, a mother of five children, can become a pilot.

There were a huge number of articles written in various newspapers and magazines about the Imperial Aero Club, the twenty women who were members of the club and in particular me. One interesting article that was written exclusively about me was published in a weekly magazine called Zane Rooz (trans. Today's Woman) which contained the above picture of me and my children.

### Flying the engine-planes

In the morning, I drove my husband to work as per the norm. His law office was across from the Ministry of Justice, located in the center of Tehran, and near the famous and the mile-long bazaar, Golestan Palace, City Park, and the radio station. Then I went all the way to the new flight school Ghale-Morghi which also belonged to the Imperial Aero Club. In order to get there, I had to pass through the poorest and most depressing area called Darvaze Ghazvin (trans. Ghazvin's Gateway).

Back when Tehran was a small village, there were gates at different entry points to Tehran with armed guards. At dusk, the gates were closed and no one was allowed to come in before dawn. But as time went on and Tehran was developed, the gates were taken away, and the responsibility of protecting the city was assigned to police and gendarmes instead of night watchmen. The difference between the northern parts and the southern parts of Tehran was enormous, almost like night and day, with the southern parts living in massive poverty. The road to the airfield and the flight school also passed through Tehran's brothel district Shahre Noo (trans. New City) with its dirty, disgusting, and narrow streets. Ironically enough in the same area of the city, there was also a well known cabaret called Shokofe Noo (trans. New Blossom), similar to the Maxim Cabaret in Paris, where many popular Persian and European artists used to perform every night. A little further along the road was the large fruit and vegetable market on Imam-zadeh Hassan Street with its chaotic traffic. Driving further, I had to go through Djavadie area, where the slaughter house was located; a deprived and dirty area filled with the stench from the slaughter house. This was the route I had to take everyday to get to the military airfield.

At the entry gate to the airfield, I was stopped by a soldier to identify myself and state my business. I told him I was there to meet Colonel Vakil Mozaffari. After a short phone call, he opened the gate and pointed the way to the Colonel's office. On my way, I took note of the field's structure, which was large and divided into many parts with different runways designated for military aircrafts, helicopters, and small planes. I saw small aircrafts parked in the parking lot, or inside hangars, and I felt an excitement about starting my lessons on those small planes. I felt a sense of belonging in that environment, and it felt like home. It was also the start of a new life for me. I was the first woman in my country with courage and tenacity to leave the comfort and safety of the house and embark on such a journey. Meeting with Colonel Vakil Mozaffari was instructive. He was a tall and powerful man of about fifty. He was a former Air Force pilot who after a plane crash, numerous operations, and a lengthy recovery had been appointed the vice-president of the Imperial Aero Club. He had difficulty walking and moving about due to his hip and leg surgeries, and he was not allowed to fly anymore.

In a long conversation with the Colonel, I had to, once again, talk about my personal life that is, being a wife and a mother of five small children. I was also asked, yet another time, whether I had thought things through, and whether I still wanted to pursue my dream, to which I responded in the same manner as I had done before. When he realized how enthusiastic and determined I was, he welcomed me to the school and sent after a particular officer. After a short while, there came a knock on the door and a stylish gentleman entered the room. His name was Kykavos Kavosi, a medium height man of about forty years of age who was assigned as my flight instructor.

The following day, I was at the flight school at eight in the morning to start my flying lessons, but this time with a Cessna 172. In the command room, my instructor prepared me with giving me lots of information, a binder full of brochures, books, and various booklets about the aircraft and aircraft's instrument panels.

We left the room and went to the parking lot, where he showed me how to first do a proper checklist inspection of the plane's exterior. Then we got on the plane and put our seat belts on. The plane was fully fuelled and everything was ready so that we could get the green light from ground staff to start the engine. We started the plane and taxied a bit before we slowed down, and stopped at the edge of the runway on stand by for the take off order from the control tower. We took off and flew west first and, after reaching a certain altitude, we changed course due south, leaving the airfield space behind. Now we were in the air. My teacher pointed to different infrastructures on the ground. He wanted me to notice the landmarks that were to our left as we were flying away from the airfield and which were going to appear to our right on our return trip. Looking at the ground beneath us, I saw the large cemetery Beheshte Zahra (trans. Zahra's paradise) on the left side of the plane.

The cemetery was probably, at that time, almost brand new. My grandmother was buried there, whose memory brought tears to my eyes. The cemetery was located outside the city of Tehran and somewhere along the route between Tehran and the city of Qom. It was built as the city of Tehran expanded and the population grew larger with the foresight that the space would suffice for almost a hundred years. The old cemeteries had long reached their capacities and the state had turned them into public parks. Before the revolution, Tehran's population was about six million. My grandmother died in 1971, and was buried in row 3 at the front section of the cemetery. However, it did not take long before rows upon rows of the cemetery started filling up as a result of the bloody revolution. More specifically, rows 5 to 17 became the resting place of many particularly, young people who were executed, stoned to death, or shot after the revolution. In 1984, my husband was buried there in row 197.

After an hour of flight time, we landed at the airfield and headed to the parking lot to park the plane. My instructor took a long look at me and asked how I felt about the whole experience. I shrugged my shoulders and told him that I could find no words to describe how I felt. That the experience was surreal and almost like a dream to me. I went on to say that I was surely glad not to have listened to those with pessimistic views and negative opinions, and that I found flying to be an amazing experience.

The next fourteen hours of flying lessons went well and I learned a lot. My instructor believed that in accordance with the regulations, I was ready to be tested by a second instructor. The approval of a second instructor was required in order for me to be permitted to fly my first solo flight. I, thankfully, managed to pass the test and could now carry on with my solo flight.

### Flying solo, October 1974

That very day that I was going to fly my first solo flight, the airfield was full of visitors, editors, and reporters from various tabloids and magazines. The Imperial Aero Club's invitation of the journalists and reporters was purely an advertising scheme to shore up more business. They wanted to attract more people to the club, and, at the same time, inspire women to learn to fly.

I sat alone in the plane for the first time. My instructor was on the ground and in contact with me through the air-traffic control tower. I started the engine apprehensively and with butterflies in my stomach. I started to go down the runway. I felt sitting on the back of the mythical bird Symorgh from Shahnameh's book (trans. the Book of the Kings), or like the fairytale character Aladdin on a magic carpet.

Before the flight, I was excited, a little nervous, but happy. I never had my heart in my mouth flying over 900 feet in the air. When I lifted the nose of the plane off the ground, a strong feeling of triumph suspended my other feelings even fear. After completing a circle over the airfield, I landed safely on the ground and taxied back to the parking area. I did not even have the slightest clue about the identity of the club's visitors. I was completely taken off guard when I was surrounded by all the reporters, editors of different newspapers, Colonel Vakil Mozaffari, the club's press officer, and other military aviation students. They welcomed me to the ground and as per previously experienced custom, buckets of water were poured on me.

Flying in Iran was in fact different from flying in Sweden. In Iran, one did not need to do anything before getting on a plane. There were plenty of staff in the airfield whose task was to prepare the aircraft before each flight. All the pilot had to do was just to give the go ahead and get permission to start the engine and head to the runway. But in 1990, when I went to renew my pilot's license at the Bromma Flight School in Sweden, I realized that the process was based on a self-service system, where everyone had to carry out the pre-flight tasks themselves.

### Beginning of a struggle

It was not long after my first solo flight that Colonel Vakil Mozaffari, whom I initially had found to be a distinguished and respectable man, began to show his true colours. One day while I was busy with studying, I was called to the command room. There, I was told that the Colonel wanted to see me. He greeted me with open arms and invited me to tea. I wondered, in fact, why he wanted to see me. He had a habit of calling everyone 'Boss'. After some silly chitchat that did not lead anywhere and also had nothing to do with me, he asked me whether I was happy with my flight lessons, with my instructor, and other staff. I replied, "Everything is going great, there's really nothing to complain about, at least not on my part." Out of the blue, he then piped up and said, "Boss, have you had lunch?" I said, "No, it's a bit too early to eat, I'm waiting to fly first, then I will eat." He then asked whether I wanted to have lunch with him! I was taken aback by his odd invitation, and I really did not know how to respond. If I were a man, I would have accepted his offer with no hesitations since there are no issues with two men having lunch together. But a man and a woman, that would have been considered improper behaviour from others' point of view. At the flight school, there were only two female officers with whom I used to sit and eat lunch.

Unfortunately, based on the prevailing culture in Iran, women are restricted in their interactions and the way they conduct themselves. As a woman, one has to be constantly careful not to ruin her reputation, or become the target of gossip. The sad part is that women, not just in Iran but everywhere, tend to hurt each other a lot more in that respect than do men.

It would have been wrong for me to accept his offer. It could have not only hurt my reputation beyond belief, it would have also damaged my family life. Even though, I myself, could not have cared less about what others would think of me, I still had to be careful about how I conducted myself in public. People did not know me well enough to understand where I was coming from. I was and still am an open, friendly, courteous, cheerful and talkative person; traits that unfortunately, at times, give people the wrong impression that I am a flirtatious woman. Although it is quite the opposite. In any event, I declined the Colonel's offer. He turned red in the face from anger and in a bizarre manner replied, "Okay do what you want. But I'll be happy if you ever wanted to eat lunch with me." This was not the last time I would hear from the Colonel. He continued to call me to his office, with or without reason, to talk to me. He was not going to give up. Perhaps, he did not like being rejected, at least, not by a woman. It was actually very frustrating for me to sit and talk with a man whose intentions were plain to see. It seems that a woman cannot live in peace and freedom without the unwarranted advances made by some men. Even today, in modern and free countries, some men still behave the same way as they did during the Renaissance. It is shameful that women are underestimated and they have to face violence, gender discrimination, or harassment on an almost daily basis.

Nonetheless, the Colonel tried to hide his anger every time he got turned down by me, but deep down inside, he was ready to crush me any way he could. Therefore, he began to put many obstacles in my way. He started a war with me in the hope of breaking my will. First thing he did was to change my instructor with a less qualified one. Based on his orders, I was directed to take my future flights with a number of young and inexperienced instructors. His goal was to prevent me from getting my pilot license. One day, at the end of my flying lesson and as I was heading out, I was again called to his office. He received me with a fake smile and asked me, "Boss, how is it going with your flight lessons? Are you satisfied with your instructors?" He did not know that I was on to him and knew of his plot to keep switching instructors on me. Then he asked me if I had any plans to travel to Europe. At first, I thought that it was a bone fide part of the training to fly to Europe like our other mandatory flights such as, day and night flights, long and short flights, and flights to other provinces and cities. But I soon understood that the question had to do with my vacation plans and nothing to do with the training.

I was dumbfounded and wondered what he meant by the question. I was even more shocked when he told me that he wanted to travel to Europe with me! I was absolutely outraged, but I tried my best not to lose my cool so, I told him that my husband and I had plans for traveling to Europe in summer after our children finished school. He was clearly not happy to have been rejected for yet another time. His ego was shattered, but not wanting to accept defeat, he turned around and said, "I meant you and me!"

I could not believe what was transpiring; a seemingly respectful colonel trying to abuse his position, it was truly sickening. I left his office in utter disgust, and headed home crying all the way. I was not sure whether to tell my husband what had happened or not. I was afraid he might suggest that I stop taking lessons. After all, I remembered how he warned me about such occurrences beforehand. I was a young and inexperienced woman and he wanted me to be aware of possible complications that could arise. After much thought, I decided to keep that to myself and not let the Colonel's harassing behaviour to get in the way of my training.

After forty hours of flying lessons, with instructors and solo, over Tehran and a few neighbouring cities, the time for my final test was fast approaching. Life was certainly hectic with all the responsibilities of raising five small children especially, when three of them had also started school. Every day, driving a long distance in the mornings to get to the flight school and sometimes, waiting a whole day for just an hour of flight time. But I kept at it, and now, I was ready to take the test and finally get my private license. The day of the test, I was advised that I would be tested by an air force officer named Haj-Hassani. He was a young officer who claimed to have no experience flying single-engine planes, which sounded absurd since everyone had to start with small planes before flying large aircrafts. Anyway, we took off, flew for sometime, and landed. We headed to the operations room where I took my navigation test. Everything went well and he was happy with my performance. He congratulated me, shook my hand, and wished me luck on the other part of my certification exam which was a written test conducted by the Civil Aviation Organization. With a big smile, I thanked him and went on my way.

That evening, we had a little party at home. I was so happy that I could not even sleep that night. The following day at the flight school, I expected to receive my schedule for the other part of the certification exam. I was absolutely gob smacked to learn that my flight test had not been approved, and I had to take the test again. I was in disbelief, how could this be? There were staff who saw the test-pilot congratulating me on passing my tests. But I guess it did not matter since it was the Colonel who was behind all of that. He had dismissed the test-pilot's evaluation claiming that officer Haj-Hassani was unskilled and inexperienced. As far as he was concerned, I had to repeat the test. I was sure I was not going to win that dirty, unfair match. Despite having witnesses, there was no one brave enough to come forward and expose him. I had to accept to take the test again, and I had to wait until he would assign a test-pilot to me. Of course, he had no intentions to let me take the test, and he was using delay tactics by not assigning a test-pilot to me. I had to look for help elsewhere, and I got that from my very first instructor. He was at that time, the president of a newly opened aviation club in the province of Isfahan. When I told him the whole story, he promised to find me a test-pilot. When Colonel Vakil Mozaffari found out that a test-pilot was coming to test me, he immediately grounded all the aircrafts and informed me that due to inspection, no plane would be available for the test. This was the Colonel's second serious attempt to stop me. Once my former instructor became aware of the new situation, he, at once, dispatched a plane from Isfahan to Tehran. He also made arrangements so that my test would take place at the Air-Aseman's Airport. Kambiz Daadsetan, the director of the Air-Aseman's airport, was one of Shah's cousins. He was a skilled fighter pilot who after a plane crash had suffered extensive injuries and could no longer fly. At the new location, I got on with my test. The test went well and Colonel Homayon, my test-pilot, applauded me on my flying skills, and even suggested to the director that he should think about hiring me as a co-pilot on double-engine planes. Air Aseman's director promised to hire me after I got my license. He tried to make good on his promise later on by getting me trained on double-engine planes by Reza Khan, a Pakistani pilot instructor, who also prepared me for my future examination. Unfortunately, however, Khomeini put an end to all my dreams.

Nevertheless, I was finally done with my test and this time, Colonel Vakil Mozaffari could not dare dispute the instructor's assessment since the instructor was a highly qualified colonel. So Colonel Vakil Mozaffari waited for the next opportune time to get his revenge. I still had one more test to do namely, the written test at the Civil Aviation Organization. A few days after writing the exam, I got the verbal result that I had passed with flying colours and that I would receive my certification as soon as I submitted a photo and a police background check. I submitted all that was required as fast as possible and waited for the reply to go pick up my certificate. A month later, I called the person in charge, Mr. Rezaei, to inquire about my certificate when I was informed, in a rude and aggressive manner, that I was not entitled to have a pilot license. As for the reason, he would not say.

Yet another battle to fight with Colonel Vakil Mozaffari who had cost me so much time, energy, and money. This time, I got my husband involved to help me and told him everything that had happened. Right away, my husband contacted his brother who was very close friends with the president of the Imperial Aero Club, a retired general named Ali Asghar Rafat. As of then, the matter was out of my hands. The battle was being fought by men who did not have to worry about getting invited to bed, or to a trip to Europe in order for the other party to concede. Ultimately, I got my pilot license and I came out of the struggle victoriously. Colonel Vakil Mozaffari was exposed, and he only had himself to blame for that. He did not understand that my only desire was to fly in the air and not to jump in bed.

My flight trainings continued day and night, flying to other cities like Rasht and Tabriz, where we ate lunch in the old Shah Goli castle from the Qajar dynasty. One of my tasks was to attend opening ceremonies of new aviation clubs in other cities. One time, there was even a group of us flying with single and twin-engine aircrafts heading to Kermanshah, a city in Kurdistan, for the opening ceremony of a new aviation club. They were all day trips so, I had to spend more time away from home than being home.

Two pictures at the Ghale-Morghi airport Official visit to Kermanshah with Dr. Mahmoud Ashtari

Arriving at the city of Isfahan for an official visit

During four years from 1974 to 1978, I was interviewed by major Iranian newspapers, women's magazines, radios and television stations in Tehran and in other cities. My picture was on the cover of many magazines. I was honoured to meet with General Rabyi, the commander-in-chief, who was very pleased about my achievements and was particularly interested in hiring me as a flight instructor. Unfortunately, he was executed by Khomeini after the revolution. He was the youngest general in Iran, as well as one of the most skilled combat and acrobatic pilots.

I also received invitation from the largest women organization, founded by Shah's twin sister Ashraf Pahlavi, to become an honorary member. The women organization sent me on many trips to various cities and provinces representing the aviation club. Later in a book published by the women organization called Minutes and Struggles, my biography was included as one of the one hundred successful women in rare and uncommon occupations.

The daily flight trainings were fascinating. To see the entire city and its outskirts in the daylight stretching to the foot of the Alborz mountains in the north and the desert in the south of Tehran.

But the experience of the night flights gave me a different perspective of my hometown and aviation. On one side, there was the city of Tehran shining with its neon lights and on the other side, the southern part of Tehran, there was darkness. As part of the training, I had to perform blind flying. A hood was placed over my head so, I could not see anything but the plane instruments. The training was meant to teach flying in cloudy conditions where the ground was not visible. I found all parts of my training interesting and instructive. In addition, I got to have great memories of taking my kids to the airport with the most memorable one being the time when I took my youngest son to one of my flight trainings.

From 1974 to 1978, I first learned to fly with glider and got my pilot license for glider. Then, I started flying with different single-engine airplanes such as, Cessna 172, 182-Pap, Piper, and the wild plane Bonanza. Ultimately, I got my pilot license for single-engine plane as well. My life has been truly like a roller-coaster, full of joy, sadness, ups and downs. I had to deal with people's jealousy, rivalry and malice. I had to fend off those who wanted to prevent me from reaching my goals. I had to fight against all the disparagement that was directed at me especially, against my mother who did not believe in my abilities or talents. So, I was forced to try even harder to prove to her and everyone else that I could. I was also forced to stop pursuing the true passion of my life, flying. After four years with 250 hours of flight, including 50 hours of solo flying, and being so close to achieving my dreams of becoming a commercial pilot, I had to leave everything behind. I had to go back home and become an ordinary housewife again.

### An insurance consultant

It was perhaps not that easy to run a household, look after the children, pursue pilot training, attend school, and then decide to add one more thing to the equation. I saw an advertisement in the paper about training as consultant in the Iran and America's insurance company, which changed its name to Tavana insurance after the revolution.

Out of interest to try something new, I decided to apply. Next day, I went to the insurance company that was located in Abbass Abad area, close to where we lived. I was interviewed by the president of the company, an American man who had lived and worked in my country for many years and could speak Persian with a slight accent. He was tall, a bit heavy, and handsome. His skin was white like snow, his eyes as blue as the blue sky, and his hair gold as sunshine. He told me a bit about the job and asked about my interest in the industry. I told him about myself and all my endeavours. He was surprised that with an already busy life, I wanted to work as well. I guess I always, subconsciously, wanted to prove my mother wrong for thinking that I had no talents and that I could not do anything. Her scepticism toward me in my childhood filled my head and had a huge impact on my life.

"She cannot," "She's untalented" "She is. . . .," These were all I heard from my mother all my life. As a result, I became ever more determined to be perfect as a way of challenging her views of me. She believed more in my half sisters and my silly brother than me, the ones who ultimately got nowhere in life. She was, indeed, very discriminating toward me. I often cried and told her, in utter frustration, that if she would let me do what I wanted then, she would find out that I was quite capable and competent. But there was no changing her mind, or her views of me, which remained the same throughout her entire life. She ruined my childhood as well as my adult life, even up to this stage of my life when I am over sixty years of age. Suffering from poor health at my age, I still make daring decisions. Evidently, not to prove myself to her anymore since she is gone, but because it has become a habit for me, a way of life.

Nonetheless, I got the job description during the interview, and was informed that I would be working on commission. Happy that I would not be stuck in an office job, I accepted the terms. That evening, I told my husband about my job. He was obviously not happy about the news yet, he smiled and just asked me whether I was sure that I was not exerting myself and jeopardizing my health. He went further to underline that we had never been nor would we ever be in need of any extra money that I would make. But my mind was made up; I was going ahead with it.

I began intensive training at the insurance company to start my career. Juggling so many things at the same time, I felt like Shima, the Indian goddess with many arms. I had to manage since I did not believe myself to be a lazy person, or rather an incompetent woman. I gained great self confidence with all that I managed to accomplish back then; an asset that came handy later on in life, when I had to get myself and my children out of Iran.

The job started off with simple tasks of calling potential clients to offer residential as well as commercial insurance coverage. In the first month, I did not sell much, but I did not let the disappointment get me down. At some point, I thought it might be helpful to talk to my husband about how my job was going and get some advice. Feeling my frustration, he pointed out that this was the first time I was not happy with my efforts and had got no result. Then, he turned around and asked whether I really wanted to carry on with such nonsense job instead of focusing on the important stuff.

I was frankly not ready to hear such phrases in my life again, at least, not from my husband who was a fighter himself. It was he who encouraged me to take on new challenges. It was he who told me that I had the ability and the competence to do all that I wanted to do. Why the sudden change? He wanted me to give up?! I certainly did not want a replica of my mother, no, one was enough. I replied crossly that all I wanted from him was advice not pessimism. I was really hurt even though deep down inside, I had thought of quitting the job myself. Still, I hated someone telling me I could not, or I should quit; phrases that would bring back too many sad and awful memories from my childhood. The next day when I walked in the office, with no hopes of any change and upset about my earlier conversation with my husband, the secretary greeted me cheerfully and said congratulations. "What is it?," I asked. She told me that she had booked an appointment for me with the vice president of Phillips Company for the following day. I could not believe my ears, I said, "What did you say? A meeting for tomorrow? I don't understand!" She told me that this was the person I had contacted at Phillips a month ago and who wanted to purchase fire insurance. This was unreal. The very day I had gone to work with the thoughts of quitting and packing my stuff to go home, I had got my big break.

### The first contract

The day after, I headed to the meeting with Phillip's vice president.

Phillip's company was located outside of Tehran, to the east. On the way there, I passed the gliding school which brought back so many good memories. I remembered how I managed in a short time to go through a tough test, and how hard I struggled just to get my glider's license. I remembered that my kids also got to fly with me. Then, I passed by Tehran's drive-in movie theatre in Tehran Pars area, which was built by my father. Tehran Pars was a new area with modern houses that were far from the center of Tehran. When I was a child, my father used to take me there. A few years later, another drive-in cinema was built in a village called Vanak, an area northwest of Tehran. A village with cool climate, rivers and streams, beautiful gardens, small and old-fashioned shops, teahouses, and restaurants. Unfortunately both drive-in cinemas were burned down, like some other modern cinemas in Tehran, by the underprivileged or the fanatical revolutionaries at the beginning of the revolution.

I continued driving on the curvy roads to the village of Damavand at the foot of Mount Damavand. After a long drive, I finally reached the company's office building. There, I met the company's vice president, a man of about fifty. He was an electrical engineer from Tehran University. He received me in a very friendly manner. After a long conversation about various insurance policies, he invited me to a lovely lunch at the company's restaurant. After lunch, we shook hands and I thanked him for the business. Not only he had signed a major contract with our insurance company, but he had also promised to recommend us to the companies he knew. My boss could not believe his ears when I gave him the news. He patted me on the shoulder and told me that as of then, I was on their permanent staff list, and I was going to have an office with my own name-plate on the door. It was an unbelievable turn of events. In my few years of working as an insurance consultant, I sold commercial insurance to many large companies as well as residential and private insurance, which generated a lot of income for me. Unfortunately however, my experience of working in an American company came to an end in 1978. A few months before the revolution, the company's management decided to close down the company and move the American staff back home since the situation was not stable in Iran. The ownership of the company was transferred to the Iranian managers who had worked there for years. It was sad to see my American manager leave. It was also disappointing not to have the chance to work with the Americans. The saving grace was that those Iranian managers, who were put in charge, ran the company with the same initiative as the ones before them. Under the new management, I got a higher position. In addition to being a consultant, I was also appointed a director position. With the new position came the responsibility of training and teaching new consultants. It was not long before two other insurance companies under the names of Alborz and Tehran showed interest to have me as a consultant there too.

I was going full force without due consideration for my health. I wanted to reach the top and I was willing to get there at any price so, I accepted the new responsibility that was added to my workload. To set up my new office, I rented a beautiful place in a newly built, modern building, and hired a secretary and a janitor. It was just a matter of time before the stress of handling too many things simultaneously, lack of sleep, and exhaustion would take their toll on me.

One day I suddenly collapsed. For the longest time, I had only slept an hour a day, and I had put my health at risk with my hectic schedule. One evening after dinner, I felt a sever chest pain and shortly thereafter, I began to tremble like a leaf and I fainted. When I came to the following day, I was told that my husband had called on the doctor who lived in our neighbourhood, who in turn had called for an ambulance. I had been rushed to the intensive care unit of the local hospital. According to the doctor there, I was jeopardizing my health with all the stress I had put my body through, and I had to try to take it easy. I was not at all willing to listen to any of his advice, or similar ones from my mother or other people who were constantly on my case. Unfortunately however, what the doctors, family, and friends could not get me to do or more appropriately, not to do, the revolution did. I was forced to close down my insurance company; I could no longer fly; and, I could not work as a co-pilot of a twin-engine aircraft because I was a woman. It was, sadly, not just I who was affected by the barbaric fundamentalism and fanatic ideologies of the revolution, but all Iranian women who wanted to make something out of their lives.

The leftist supporters in Iran who were devoted to communism, Marxism, Maoism and other 'isms' helped the mullahs to take over the country. These were in reality Shah's staunch political opponents and obstacles to the country's development and growth, and they managed to take us back 1400 years in time. Ironically enough, for their help, they got to be rewarded by being executed, imprisoned, tortured or exiled by the mullahs. And since then, they have been fighting non-stop, but this time, against the mullahs. What fools, and they claim to be intellectuals and know-it-alls! None of them wants to admit that it was they who brought Khomeini to power. Maybe God will forgive them for their stupidity, but I doubt if Iranians would do the same given the sheer misery they have had to endure day in and day out.

### The White Revolution (1963-1979)

Mohammad Reza Pahlavi became the Shah (trans. king) in 1941 at the age of 20. He took the throne after his father, Reza Shah, with some help from Britain and the Soviet Union, who were concerned about Reza Shah's friendly relations with Germany.

In 1951, Mohammad Mossadeq was appointed prime minister. Upon taking office, he pushed to eradicate poverty by nationalizing the British-owned oil company in Iran. By so doing, he wished to keep the revenues generated from the sale of the oil in Iran. Britain, however, responded with a trade boycott that halted Mossadeq's plans. Iran went in to a crisis; the power struggle between Shah and Mossadeq led to Shah fleeing the country. Receiving help from abroad, Shah returned to Iran after a US-backed military coup in 1953. Mossadeq was sent to Ahmad Abad village, where he was from, in exile, and an international group of companies took over the oil production. During the Cold War, Shah remained a stable ally of the Western World in a volatile region.

The White Revolution, which was carried out from 1962 to 1963, was eagerly cheered on by the Western powers. It was not a real revolution, but rather, a series of reforms ranging from abolition of feudal system to banning hijab (trans. veil), promotion of women's rights and freedom, improvement of educational system, and expansion of industry. While these were the positive aspects of the reforms, they brought about a widespread corruption. Some were given more rights than others depending on their political views of the regime. Also, those who were in charge of the distribution of farmlands, favoured certain groups over others, which impacted the farming industry. With the decline of agriculture, Iran had to import food; a phenomenon which was completely new for the country. In 1975, small farmers were forced to amalgamate their farms with larger ones. This not only angered the farmers, but it also impacted the economy of rural elites and in particular, the clergy. Shah made enemies everywhere and ultimately, in the late 1970s, the overall discontent reached its zenith. Students took to the streets demanding democratic rights, while those religious groups condemned the regime as immoral for legalizing gambling, sale of alcohol, and inaction against sex before marriage. Shah fought back but this was the beginning of the end for him. As the number of dead and injured among demonstrators increased so, did their resistance. On 16 January 1979, Shah was forced to flee the country, and a new chapter in Iranian history begun, Khomeini's chapter.

It was exciting for me to be a young mother and have five children. I was happy building my career while simultaneously, looking after the best interest of my children. I was constantly on the road to take them to swimming lessons, karate training, gymnastics classes, music lessons and skiing lessons. In Iran, we have the longest and best ski slopes in Tochal, Disin, Shemshak, Abe Ali, Gajere, which are all located on Alborz mountain chains. I was just as many times on the road to hospitals for them due to their different injuries on their bicycles, motorcycles, and so forth. Thinking back, I sometimes wonder how I managed all of that. But I guess being young myself at the time, I was full of energy. They have been my pride and joy, and my life would have been meaningless if I did not have them. It was therefore, heartbreaking for me to have an abortion when I got pregnant for the seventh time in my life. It was during my pilot training, and as soon as the flight school found out about it, I was given an ultimatum to either stop training or get an abortion. I had a long discussion with my husband about it. Neither one of us wanted the abortion, but I had to think of my health. Aside from the miscarriage that nearly enough killed me, I had gone through difficult pregnancies and childbirths and my body could not handle another full-term pregnancy. I was also at a critical stage of my pilot training, an arduous work that had taken up so much of my time and energy, and an endeavour that was a dream of a lifetime for me. Many times after the abortion, I felt remorse and I wondered if I should have gone ahead with the pregnancy. But with everything that transpired later on in life—the revolution, the passing of my husband, and our escape from Iran—I was glad that another small child was not put through that hell.

In summer of 1978, the Italian school Don Bosco (later on, renamed to Andishe), where three of our sons went to, planned a student visit to England and Scotland. As soon as we were told about it, we signed up our son Reza who was a student there, and our oldest son Ali who did not attend that school. It was a month-long trip and expensive, but we thought it would be a great learning opportunity for them. They were excited and happy about their trip since it was going to be packed with so much to do like camping, canoeing, rock-climbing, and sight-seeing. We took them to the Mehr Abad airport, a large and modern airport located west of Tehran. Since this was the first time we were to be separated, I was quite emotional while my husband stayed calm and quiet. He must have found my reaction strange since I had always been the one insisting on sending our children overseas. In reality, I was forever telling my husband that we should move to the United States. Unfortunately, my husband was never interested in leaving Iran. He loved his country, his job and everything he had there. He also had great confidence in the future of Iran and did not see the need to leave Iran.

### My first trip to the U.S.

When my two sons Ali and Reza went to England and Scotland, I, too, decided to take a trip abroad and visit a few countries. My husband could not follow me on the trip due to his hectic schedule. As a lawyer, he had trials to attend and clients to represent, and no time to take a vacation with his wife.

I was leaving my three children, my daughter and my two younger sons, in the care of my husband. There was nothing to worry about since the house-keeper was scheduled to come every day to clean and cook for them. My mother was also supposed to visit them frequently. Ten days before my trip and as I was heading to the U.S. embassy to get my visa, I got into a car accident. A reckless driver went through a red light and hit my car on the passenger side where my daughter sat. Fortunately, she was not hurt, but I ended up with a broken wrist, a bump on my head when I hit the steering wheel, and a large bruise around one of my eyes. A police report and a hospital visit later, the day was finally over.

In Iran, women have no right to obtain passport, or travel abroad without the written consent of their husbands. This policy was in effect even back then. Once everything was in place, I began my trip with a broken hand, a swollen eye, and a bruised face.

In a small tour of twelve, five of which were children, we were to visit Italy first, Canada next, and last but not least, my most favourite place, the United States. The children were ill-mannered and unruly. Their father was a heart surgeon, and their mother was a poorly educated daughter of an Ayatollah from the holy city of Qom, who was covered in a floral, light-red veil from head to toe. The first time we met, which was at the airport, she came over and asked, "Where are we going? Are we going to the holy city of Mashhad?" A few of us standing together looked at each other and did not know what to say. The tour leader, who had overheard her, came over and told her that it was Italy we were going to and not Mashhad! She burst into tears, and when asked by the tour leader if he had said something wrong, she responded, "No, it is not you, it is my husband who tricked me into believing that we were going on a pilgrimage to Mashhad. I had no idea we were going to non-Islamic countries." She went on to mention that she had packed an electronic rice cooker, rice, green lentils, dried vegetables, cooking oil, and various food ingredients to cook for her children at the hotel in the holy city!

In any case, we flew to Rome with Alitalia Air Line. A historic town, full of old buildings, lots of traffic with angry motorists who honked their horns all the time, and folk who talked loudly as if everyone around them was deaf. What I found to be gross though, was the hairy legs or arm-pits of the so-called European women, and the smell of sweat from men in public places. It was equally disturbing to see prostitutes walking the streets and groping men shouting vulgarities at them. At any rate, we took a bus and then a boat to Capri, Anna Capri, Sorrento, and Pompeii.

Over the entire trip and during visits to various parts of Italy including the Vatican city, there she was, the woman covered in a strange veil tagging along. It was indeed we who had rightly become an spectacle for the Italians, thanks to her. Yet another irritant was her awful stench of sweat. The day we were to visit the Vatican, my roommate and I were seated in a row behind hers, and we thought we were going to die of the horrendous odour that was blowing in our noses. She stunk something awful. I had enough so, I tapped her on the shoulder and asked her, "Don't you take a shower every day? Or don't you change your clothes regularly?" I was stunned when she answered idiotically, "Do people take a shower every day? It's not good for the body, too much shower dries the skin!" She went further to say that because she had her period, she had to wait until day six of that before she could take a shower. Disgusted and stunned, my friend, whose name was Iran, and I looked at each other dumbfounded since we did not know how to respond to such unbelievable stupidity. We had to put up with her antics, her stench, and her screaming children during the whole trip. Since she did not want to eat in the non-Islamic countries, she used her rice cooker that she had brought from home to cook food in her hotel room. The hotel corridor used to be filled with the smell of the basmati rice. Once the hotel staff found the source of that aroma, they issued them a warning to stop cooking in the room. Unfortunately after the revolution, all Iranians were forced to live in filth, become smelly, and wear grotesque clothes to please Khomeini and his god. If folk wanted to keep their jobs, they had to comply with all the Islamic rules of the mullahs. They had to appear messy and scruffy with unshaved beard, or lose their jobs. It was all about oppression and degradation.

I remember when my grandmother, who was a devout Muslim but not fanatic, used to tell us that, according to the Prophet, we had to be clean and wear clean clothes at the time of our daily prayers. This was and is the way of life in all the leading religious countries.

The visit to the Vatican - or rather, God's home, as Mecca is called God's home \- was extremely fascinating and impressive, but it also got me thinking about the reality of religion in the same way as I do today. The notion of holy buildings such as mosques, churches, temples and all other sacred places makes me wonder if the modern-day spiritual leaders follow their prophets' footsteps. I ask myself If all the prophets lived in the lap of luxury or were they not modest people who lived a simple life with close ties to their followers. How many hungry, poor, and homeless people live in the vicinity of the holy sites who can benefit from much less of what the religious leaders have amassed in wealth. Ironically enough, the poor gives more in the name of religion and in the hopes of a place in heaven!

Vatican ...Rome

Before the revolution, we, Iranians, lived exactly like those in the Western World. A free nation with more than three thousand years of history. A civilized country with rich culture, beautiful nature, and extensive natural resources. The only difference I found between my country and Italy was the language and religion, nothing else. In Italy, there were also run-down houses, beggars, drug addicts, prostitutes, homeless, and poor, all of which exist even in today's time and in all the Western countries. Sadly, the Western countries choose not to see the problems within their own boundaries, but they are quick to point out the shortcomings elsewhere in the world.

Carrying on with the trip, we flew to our next destination, Canada. It was in Toronto that I got a glimpse of the western modernity, which was different from my country or Italy. A truly fascinating, beautiful, and clean country, at least back in 1978. We visited a number of tourist attractions including, the CN Tower where we took the elevator up to the revolving restaurant at the top of the CN Tower and enjoyed looking at Toronto's landscape from above. Since we were to travel further to the United States, we took a bus from Toronto to Niagara Falls and then to Buffalo, where we stayed one night and flew to Washington the following day.

Buffalo was neither modern nor fancy. The city reminded me of Iran's small towns. When we got to Washington, however, we saw a different face of the United States, the movie-like image. We got to visit the Space Museum, the White House, Kennedy's grave in the Arlington Cemetery, and a few other museums. It was amazing to visit the History Museum, and learn about the continent's occupation by the Europeans and its impact on the lives of those native to the land. As it turned out, it took no more than half a year for me to share the aboriginal people's fate as we Iranians sadly landed in a somewhat similar situation. Walking through the museum, we came across the statues of all U.S. presidents from George Washington to Jimmy Carter, who was the president at the time. The taped recording at each statue gave a short presentation of that president's accomplishments, which in Richard Nixon's case was an apology for Watergate scandal.

Almost 25 years after the Iranian revolution, Jimmy Carter admitted, in his own words, that the Iranian regime change was his greatest mistake. He should have used common sense, or listened to his advisors. And now not even an apology to the Iranian people. I suppose, I expected or hoped for Jimmy Carter's apology to the world and, particularly, to Iranians for what he did to us and our country.

Politics is dirty and convoluted. A farmer, an actor, an inexpert, a mullah, anyone seems to be able to become a statesman regardless of merits. At any rate, we leave the judgment to the history. The future will tell what contributions to a nation or to the world were made by any given statesman.

As for the trip to the United States, it was an exciting and rewarding experience overall. One cannot help but admire the Americans' success in over a couple of centuries. They have managed to build an incredibly advanced country in all aspects and become a superpower. I believe that one of the key factors in their success is that the United States was founded by people with diverse backgrounds. It was certainly in the United States where I wanted to live and still dream of living. Regardless, I cannot change the path of my life, or perhaps destiny that brought me to Sweden, a country that is fascinating in its own right. Much like the United States, Sweden also managed to become a highly developed country in a short period of time after the end of the Second World War. As for us Iranians, who take pride in our thousands of years of history, we had to flee our country and settle down in different parts of the world as immigrants or refugees. Despite the ancient history, Iran has not made any progress and lags behind. Unlike what goes on in Iran, people and politicians work toward the advancement of their country in Sweden. Swedes love their country; they take pride in their national flag; and, they sing their national anthem from their hearts. They have built a peaceful and prosperous country, which is quite admirable. In my view, they have more brains than us Iranians.

We pretend to be proud of our thousands of years of history, but deep down inside we cry of shame and of demise. To have surrendered all the power to a mullah, a fanatic dictator of a leader who destroys the country, its people, and the country's reputation. We are ashamed; I am ashamed, and all the children who were born and those who are yet, to be born in my country will be embarrassed of the country's standing. The country's reputation, which was tainted by the mullahs, cannot be erased from the history. The uncertainty and naivety of people compounded by the acts of treason by some particularly, the leftist Iranians and their supporters, who had no qualms in selling out the country, led the country down the path it went. What do we have now? Who are we now? Nothing and no one!

Back to my trip to the United States, I remember seeing graffiti on the walls in Washington DC, one of which I found strange as it read "Down with the Shah." On another occasion as I was standing in a long queue to go on a tour in the White House, I came across a group of Iranian demonstrators calling on the United States to help change the regime in Iran. A bunch of men and women who obviously had no shame. I wondered what they were talking about and why they were demonstrating in front of the White House. What more did they want from a country that had just started to rebuild and had overcome so much in such a short time? The country's poverty was reduced. Construction, repairs, and renovations were ongoing. New schools, hospitals, universities, day-cares, senior-citizen homes and alike were being built. Public education was introduced, and children were provided with breakfast up to grade six regardless of their parents' financial status. As well, women's rights and freedom were established and enforced.

The next stop in the journey was New York which was so different from all the other cities. It was amazing to see all those skyscrapers since back then, they were not that very many countries that had them. In my country, we had few tall buildings that were no more than three floors. People were so nice and pleasant toward us Iranian tourists at least, before the revolution. It is interesting to see how we Iranians are now considered to be uncivilized and barbaric at best, and at worst, terrorists. Our visits to museums, the Twin Towers, and many other tourist sites were fascinating experiences of my life. The magnificent Statue of Liberty was sure a very memorable site to see.

New York

We also visited Fifth Avenue with its high-end, posh boutiques, and then Harlem with its run-down buildings. It was perplexing to see poverty and below-standard living conditions in a rich country like the United States. The contrast in the standard of living between rich and poor areas was a sad thing to see. Although there were many homeless and poor in the other parts of New York City as well, there was a big difference between life in Harlem and that of Manhattan.

Harlem was, according to the warnings we were given, also not a safe place for tourists to visit alone or at night time.

In any event, my trip to the three countries ended in late July 1978. We flew with Pan American Airlines direct from New York to Tehran, a truly unforgettable trip.

### The return to Iran

At the Mehr Abad Airport, I waited for my husband and children to take me home. But instead, I was met by my brother-in-law's adjutant and his driver. I got worried that something must have gone wrong that they had come to pick me up. I wanted to find out why my husband was not at the airport. They tried to calm me down and they said that my husband was not feeling well. I asked them if it was something serious. I got informed that he was getting better and that he was out of danger. I was shocked; every time I had called home, I was told that everything was fine. I could not wait to get home. Once there, my brother-in-law came forward to greet me and then my kids came running toward me, hugging me and crying. I turned and looked at the other side of the room, and I saw my husband lying in bed with his head bandaged up. All shaky, I walked toward him and screamed, "Doctor—that's what I used to call him—are you O.K.?" His brother told me it was best not to talk to him since he needed to rest for twenty four hours. He was given sleeping pill to help him get some rest.

I was informed that two days prior to my return, my husband had got a massive nose bleed due to high blood pressure. My daughter had called her uncle immediately, and by the time he had arrived, my husband had already fainted due to extensive blood loss. He had then been transported to a military hospital with an ambulance, where they had attended to him and tried to stop the bleeding with great difficulty.

With tears in my eyes, I rubbed his cheek and whispered in his ears, "Wake up, I am here, what has happened to you?" He opened his eyes, looked at me, and in a low voice asked," Are you really back, my love? You have not left me on my own in this world?"

"What are you talking about?," I said; "I would never leave you, why should I do that?"

With weepy eyes and in a soft voice he welcomed me home. I interrupted him and tried to calm him down. I also assured him that he would get better soon and that the worst is over. This is what I walked into when I got back; he was near death due to his high blood pressure, which according to his doctor could have led to a brain haemorrhage. Oddly enough, it was a good thing that he had got that massive nose bleed which ended up saving his life.

I was anxious to tell him about my trip and especially, the Iranian's demonstration in Washington. But all of that could wait for now until he was better.

Later on, when I got a chance to tell him about the protest against Shah in Washington and the graffiti to that effect, he told me not to worry about it since it would not have any impact on the regime. He went further to say that the world could benefit more from keeping him in power than not. As such, he believed that, if needed, the world would come to Shah's aid and help him remain in power.

He was very confident that a fifty-year-old dynasty was not going to be shaken by a handful of dissenters. Moreover, he did not think that there was anyone who could take the power and be accepted as the head of the state. He did not know that the world particularly, the Western World were more capable than he could imagine in changing the regime in a heart beat, and putting in charge someone who would secure their benefits.

When my sons were also back from their trip, we had so much to talk about. Life went on but not the same way as before, a volcano eruption was about to shake the country to its core.

Shortly after my return, I got abdominal bleeding for which I had to undergo a surgery. I was kept in the hospital for eight days post surgery. While at the hospital, I could hear people shouting out there on the streets, uttering slogans against the regime and the sporadic gun shots.

After the three-months summer holidays, students were gearing up to go back to school. In Iran, schools and universities commence on the first day of Autumn (24 September).

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### The Black Friday

The uprising against Shah gained momentum by every passing day, and it reached its climax on Friday, 8 September 1978, which was the holy day of Eid-Al-Fitr and about two weeks before the start of schools.

A mass protest was planned to take place on that day by Khomeini's followers, non-religious groups, Mujahedeen and Iranian communists at Jaleh square in the vicinity of the Board of Civil Aviation and a hydro plant in western Tehran, an old and historic square. Those who did not live nearby knew nothing of the protest and only found out about it through news reports on radio and television. Thousands of protesters had gathered there early in the morning with the intention of first, attacking the hydro and then, moving toward the Board of Civil Aviation building and occupying the area. It was clear that Yasser Arafat was one of Khomeini's helpers in that riot with the hope of scoring economic gains later. Khomeini could not care less whose life was lost in the gun fires that day. It made no difference to him whether it was a supporter of him or not who was getting shot at that demonstration. The only thing he was interested in was the number of losses which he could use as propaganda to further agitate the people. That is, after all, what went on in another incident in the city of Abadan when Rex Cinema, filled with innocent people, was burned to the ground, for which Shah's regime was blamed, hence causing widespread outrage.

A bloody day in the history of the revolution with large number of fatalities. The consequences of that bloodshed were more bloody protests, more aggression from demonstrators, and more deadly engagement by the military. The act of demonstration became an every-day occurrence; the crowds grew bigger day by day, and the protesters' voices became louder and louder. The situation in Iran was alarming, and the atmosphere was filled with hate and rage. The country's future was uncertain. The news programmes on mass media were extensively censored, and their reports of the protests were limited to only a few minutes. No one dared talk much about the demonstrations in public. Ironically enough, while before the revolution, we were worried about speaking openly in public, after revolution, we had to watch what we said even among family members.

Iran delved deeper into chaos as people became ever so defiant towards the regime; a type of behaviour that was initially manifested in the aftermath of Jimmy Carter's visit to Tehran in January 1978. It was not long after he left Iran that Iran plunged into a state of anarchy. Large scale demonstrations were organized. Khomeini's taped speeches and messages from abroad were distributed to his followers in Iran. The anti-Shah faction was not limited to the religious groups as it also included Iranian leftists, Mujahedeen, and merchants at the colossal bazaar of Tehran. Ever since Khomeini's first uprising in 1962, many affluent merchants had kept providing financial support to him in order to appear pious.

As the wave of protesters took over the streets, Shah struck back with full force. Hundreds of protesters were killed, at one time or another, through 1978 and early 1979. And this was the beginning of the end for Shah and ultimately, for us Iranians to live in freedom in a civilized and modern country. The backlash from Shah's use of force against people had devastating impact on the regime both domestically and internationally. Shah lost support all over the world from the United States to England, Germany, France and a number of Arab countries. Internally, the wide-spread strikes especially, in the oil industry brought the country to its knees. People were forced to line up for hours in the dead of winter to buy only ten litre of oil as per the ration allotment, a small quantity which was not enough to either cook with or heat up a house. In the past, we used to call and place an order for 100 litre of oil to be delivered to the house. We never thought of the price since oil was cheap. By the same token, people had to wait for hours at the gas pumps to fill up their cars. On the whole, there were long queues everywhere, at the bakeries, supermarkets, butcher shops, and the like. 1979 marked the end of a bright and blissful era and the beginning of a long, dark, and daunting one for us Iranians.

### Autumn 1978

The revolution seemed to be absurdly linked to the uprising of 1962 which was in support of Mohammad Mossadeq and backed by Khomeini. The majority of the demonstrators, however, had no knowledge of either Khomeini or Mossadeq since they were young and inexperienced. Khomeini's followers succeeded to brainwash young people; as well, they managed to take advantage of people's poverty or faith to cause further agitation. Khomeini left Iraq for France and once there, he attracted lots of media, hence greater opportunity to spread his propaganda. In his interviews, he promised to end Shah's oppression of the people, eradicate poverty, and provide an equal standard of living for all. He also guaranteed Iranians to receive their fair share of the oil sale, which, according to him, equated to 75 toman a day. He ordered people to stop paying rent, bank interests, fines, electricity and water bills. He urged people not to go to work and instead, go on strikes. He assured women that they would have their freedom preserved under his ruling to the point that they could even choose not to wear the veil if they did not want to. He also vowed to go to the holy city of Qom and carry on his duties in the capacity of a religious leader and not a politician. He then demanded that Shah be removed from power. All this went on in France before he came back to Iran.

Greedy, gullible, educated, uneducated, poor, rich, men, and women took to the streets. As a result, an illiterate mullah, a dictator who took away all kinds of freedom, turned life a living hell in Iran; a sad state of affairs that has been going on for over three decades.

### Shah's removal from power

On 16 January 1979, the regime was toppled and Shah was ousted. In the preceding months of being deposed, Shah tried his best to win people over by even appearing on television and apologizing to the people. He came down hard on politicians and authorities who had mistreated people and abused their positions. He either fired or imprisoned those in his government who had held on securely to their posts for over thirteen years such as, Amir Abbass Hoveida (the Prime Minister), Hoshang Nikro (Mayor of Tehran), Jafar Sharif-Emami (Senate Spokesman), and Riyazi (the Speaker of the House) just to prove his credibility to the people. Much to his dismay however, none of his efforts was successful in swaying the people's opinion. The situation got direr by each passing day since prolonged strikes had caused serious interruption in all sorts of services and significant shortages of products. Having run out of options, Shah gave in to the secular liberals' demands and appointed the National Front leader, Shapour Bakhtiar, as the new prime minister. It did not take long before the new prime minister, who was not Shah's but Khomeini's backer, convinced Shah to, temporarily, leave the country until people had calmed down and the situation had improved. In a leap of faith, Shah took his family and left the country.

That day, my daughter was invited to a classmate's birthday party. Their home was located on Pahlavi street across from the Shahanshahi Park (trans. Royal Park), which was renamed to Mellat Park (trans. Folk Park) and housed a newly-built mosque after the revolution. A park that used to be open and accessible at all times, was, of late, enclosed by walls, fences and gates. The park had become heavily guarded on the account of the Iranian television station that was situated in the vicinity. This used to be an affluent neighbourhood with large and modern buildings. Moreover, Pahlavi Street—with its extension under a different name—was Tehran's longest street, which stretched from the train station in the south to Shemiran area at the foot of the mountain in the north. Nonetheless, everything seemed quiet, at least, on that street when I left my daughter with her friend. I was supposed to pick her up at seven o'clock in the evening. It was three o'clock when she called and asked me to come and get her. In the background, I could hear people screaming in the street and cars honking their horns, which were common occurrences back then. I started the car and drove up to the main road. At first, I did not notice anything unusual until I turned on to the main street. I saw people shaking hands, congratulating one another, and kissing each other on the cheeks. In the next blink of the eye, I was approached by few people asking me to hunk my horn in celebration of Shah's departure from the country. I could not believe my ears that he had left the country and the people. He was gone for good and so were peace, freedom and democracy.

Streets were buzzing with people, and traffic was at a near standstill. It took nearly five hours for me to arrive at that address which was not so far from our house. I was in tears for what had transpired, and my heart was filled with sorrow. I thought to myself, "Where are we heading as a nation?" A civilized country was slipping into barbarism. In the days that followed, lawlessness and brutality ran rampant. It seemed as if Tehran had turned against itself and security was nonexistent.

Unfortunately, history is filled with similar upheavals that have taken place at different periods of time in different parts of the world. After the revolution, thousands of people were executed at the hands of a sadistic mullah called Khalkhali. He was also responsible for ruining many historic and ancient buildings and tombs including that of Reza Shah Pahlavi, the Shah's father. A building that was built by an Italian architect with marble and granite. As well, Khalkhali was determined to demolish the Persepolis since he detested the country's history and had an utmost hatred for royalty.

### The curfew

We decided to go out to Tajrish and Darband in northern Tehran as we often did in the evenings. It was always nice to spend our evening in the fresh air and beautiful surroundings that those places had to offer. Strangely enough, not a lot of people were out and about that evening. By the time, we headed home, we found the dark streets to be almost empty. This was the effect of an imposed curfew on the city residents. Funny how people who wanted more freedom were now confined to their homes, and did not even have the freedom to come out of their houses.

In the preceding days of the fall of the regime, one could still hear people cheering on the streets. One day, the loud celebratory cheers in our street caught my attention and I could not resist stepping outside to see what that was about. People were standing on both sides of the street and clapping for a group of people who were passing through. I asked a neighbour what was going on, and what all the cheering was about. She replied, "They are prisoners who have been freed from Ghasr jail," a prison which was not far from our area. On that day, the revolutionaries had swarmed the prisons around Tehran, and had freed the inmates regardless of whether they were political or criminal prisoners. They had additionally managed to break in and ransack a number of police stations and military bases. Lots of guns and assault rifles were taken from those places, and many, including the criminals, were walking the streets fully armed. With the break out of severe clashes between demonstrators and the military, a city-wide curfew was imposed.

In view of the state of lawlessness in Tehran, and out of fear for the armed criminals who roamed freely around the city, we, like many others, had no choice but to beef up the security around our house. It was winter time and the city looked dull and grey, perhaps, not so much due to the season's attributes rather, the changing appearances of people who had abandoned bright-coloured outfits for the more pale and washed-out ones. Days passed by one after another and each one with its own hardship and agony. We spent most of our days in those long line-ups to buy our basic necessities like food, oil, and gas. At times, due to insufficient supply of goods, half the people who had waited in one queue for hours had to run to another store in the hope of purchasing what they needed.

### Iran's unknown destiny

Shah left the country on 17 January 1979. Khomeini, along with many of his supporters who lived in exile, returned to Iran from Paris on 1 February 1979. Soon thereafter, power was seized in the hands of a group of fundamentalists, and Shah was replaced by Ayatollah Khomeini. Hundreds of thousands of people from all walks of life and of all ages gathered at the Mehr Abad airport and along the main streets to welcome their leader, Khomeini, to Iran. Among those greeting Khomeini at the airport were also his more sophisticated and intellectual supporters. The first one in that category was Shapour Bakhtiar, an Iranian political scientist, writer, and the last prime minister of Iran under Shah's regime. Not long after the Iranian revolution, he was forced to flee to Paris where he was ultimately assassinated by the alleged Iranian intelligence agents in 1991.

The second person belonging to that category was Mehdi Bazargan, the leader of the Liberal party, who was later appointed prime minister. He was the mastermind behind the strikes at the oil refineries before the revolution. He resigned, along with his cabinet, after the invasion of the United States' embassy and the subsequent hostage-taking incident. His resignation was seen as a protest against that madness.

The third one in that group was Ayatollah Mahmoud Taleghani, an Iranian theologian, an Islamic reformer, and a Shiite Mullah. Taleghani was one of Khomeini's contemporaries and a leader of Iran's Shi'a in his own right. In 1979, Taleghani warned of a "return to despotism," which led to two of his sons being arrested by the revolutionary guards. People objected to the revolutionary guard's handling of Ayatollah Taleghani's sons, and paid homage to him. Shortly thereafter, he was called to Qom where he received a severe tongue-lashing from Khomeini and was stripped of his title of Ayatollah. A few months later, he died of a heart attack.

The next one in that group was Dariush Forouhar. He was one of the founders and leaders of the Hezb-e Mellat-e Iran (trans. the Nation of Iran Party), a pan-Iranian opposition party in Iran. He served as the minister of labour in the interim revolutionary government of Mehdi Bazargan in 1979. He later became a critic of the Islamic government, and, in 1998, he and his wife were murdered in a string of assassinations in Iran, for which Saeed Emami, a deputy security official of the Ministry of Information, was found guilty.

Karim Sanjabi was another one in that group, who was a liberalist and an opponent of Shah. He was one of the founders of the National Front of Iran. Sanjabi served as the minister of foreign affairs in the interim revolutionary government (February-April 1979). He founded the Islamic Republic, but became a critic of Khomeini's regime and ultimately, fled Iran in 1982. He died in 1995.

Even the leaders of the Communist Party, the Tudeh Party, and the Mujahedeen were at the airport. Massoud Rajavi, the leader of the Mujahedeen, eventually left his followers and his supporters at the mercy of Khomeini in 1981, and escaped to Paris with Bani-Sadr. Later on, he left France and settled in Iraq.

It seemed that Khomeini had succeeded to fool an entire nation. The first major shock to the nation, particularly to the millions of insurgents, came from a televised interview with Khomeini on his way from Paris to Tehran. When the reporter asked Khomeini how he felt about his return to Iran, he replied that he felt nothing! He was, in fact, correct in not having any feelings for coming back to Iran as he was not an Iranian at heart. Khomeini's grandfather, an Indian Muslim, had immigrated from Barabanki in northern India to the city of Khomain in the 1800s. The grandfather on his mother's side, however, came from an Iranian Shiite clergyman's family.

Among the people who flew back to Iran with Khomeini was his son Ahmad, who shortly after Khomeini's death was also mysteriously murdered.

Hassan Bani-Sadr was one of Shah's opponents who lived in exile in Paris and came back with Khomeini. Khomeini appointed him as the president of the Islamic Republic. In 1981, he escaped from the country wearing a veil and makeup and settled in Paris, where he still lives.

Another person who accompanied Khomeini to Iran was Sadegh Ghotbzadeh, a supporter of the National Front of Iran as well as the Freedom Movement in Iran, and a close aide to Khomeini during his exile in France. Having received a scholarship under Shah's time, Ghotbzadeh was a university student in the United States who dropped out of university to join the camp against Shah. He was first appointed as the executive director of Iran's national radio and television telecommunication department and later became the minister of foreign affairs. In 1982, he was arrested for plotting a coup with a group of officers and mullahs against Khomeini. Consequently, he was tried and sentenced to death. The sentence was carried out by a firing squad. The tribunal had linked all those involved in the conspiracy to the CIA.

Ebrahim Yazdi, a pharmacology student at the University of Tehran, also came back to Iran with Khomeini. After the revolution, he was made the deputy prime minister and the minister of foreign affairs in the interim revolutionary government of Mehdi Bazargan, where he served until his departure in November 1979 in objection to the hostage crisis in Iran. In 1984, he was elected a member of parliament and he remained so until 1998.

These were the brains behind the revolution who hoped to perhaps one day lead the country themselves, but they had obviously underestimated Khomeini and his influence over people. People used to flock to Beheshte Zahra cemetery to hear Khomeini's speech close up. The crowd grew so big that the organizers were forced to fly Khomeini to the cemetery by helicopter rather than driving him there by car.

The day before Khomeini's arrival, the military and the police force had laid their weapons down and had joined the revolutionaries. In the evening of his arrival, the television programme was suddenly interrupted with an announcement made by a well known TV host, Ali Hosseini, to the effect that as of that point, the viewers were watching the democratic Iranian TV channel. Ali Hosseini was a member of the Mujahedeen and was forced to escape from Iran later on. After his announcement, there was yet another one made by someone else calling the television network as first, the Iranian Republican television and still later, the Iranian Islamic Republican television. Shortly thereafter, Sadegh Ghotbzadeh, whose voice was unfamiliar, announced Khomeini's victory. He also reported that the military had surrendered earlier that day and the 4th Armoured Division, which supported the insurgents, had taken control of the airport and the major hubs in the city. Radio, television, and domestic and foreign telecommunication departments had also been taken over. My husband and I were saddened by the news and worried about our future. It was terrible that the population was divided into two camps, supporters and opponents. We had to be afraid of everyone, neighbours, co-workers, store-keepers, children's classmates, teachers, and so forth.

In the following few days, there were pure chaos and uproar as the last supporters of the old regime were hunted down. No one was safe anywhere. I was worried for my children especially, my oldest son. He was out with his friends and came home a little too late. I was beside myself with worry. When he, eventually, came home, he had an AK47 rifle on him and was red in the face. He told me that people had raided the police academy in our area and took all the weapons. At that point, my son was only 16 years old, and the combination of peer pressure and curiosity to see a real weapon had clouded his judgment. Prior to my son coming home, someone had buzzed the intercom asking me to open the door. I hesitated to open the door and hung up. I was absolutely terrified. Moments later, the person called again only this time, he said, "I am your brother-in-law." It was indeed my brother-in-law, the army general, in messy, dirty civilian clothes. The military base under his command had also been looted. His long time bodyguard and driver had been shot dead, and he was forced to run away and seek refuge in our home. My brother-in-law hid in our house for two days. His family had been living abroad but as a high ranking military officer, he could not have left the country even though, he had been aware for quite some time that Shah was on his way out. My brother-in-law kept in touch with those he knew via phone calls including, his personal staff who were soldiers that were assigned to work at his residence. On the third day, the phone rang at our house. It was my brother-in-law's personal staff informing him that a bunch of armed guards had barged in his house looking for him, and that if he did not show up, they would execute every member of his staff.

He told them he would get there in an hour. But how was he going to get there was the dilemma. He called one of his cousins to come pick him up. When he arrived, it was decided that we that is, my husband, my children and I, follow them as well. It was a delicate and dangerous situation. We were all afraid, but I was mostly concerned for my children. I told my husband, "I'm scared and don't want to risk my children's lives." He assured me that nothing bad was going to happen; that we were just going to drop off his brother at his home and leave as soon as we could.

### A gun in our face

When we arrived at my brother-in-law's residence, we saw a few armed men at the front gate of the house. I could not see all their faces since a few had their faces covered with Palestinian scarves. As we approached the house, they immediately turned their weapons on us. My knees buckled after all, this was the very first time in my life to see a weapon directed at me. I was also frightened for my children who looked pale and clearly scared. The armed guards shoved us through the gate and dragged us from the front yard to the living room, where we came across more guards who were busy checking out the Persian rugs, antiques and any other valuables in the room.

We were then, put under arrest and locked up in a room on the second floor. They took my brother-in-law with them to another room. My children started to cry and so did I. I told my husband that I would never forgive him for dragging us there. I said that he could have gone with his brother if he wanted to, but he should have never put my life and our children's lives in danger. My brother-in-law confronted the guards and realized that a few of them could not even speak Persian. To resolve the situation, he was permitted to make a few phone calls. He called the people he knew in high places including, the new prime minister, Mehdi Bazargan, a respected religious figure named Mahmoud Taleghani, and Khomeini's son Ahmad. We were kept locked up in that room for three days without anyone even knowing of our whereabouts. After three agonizing and nerve-racking days, a Persian-speaking guard opened the door, and with a smirk on his face, he kicked us out of the room. Dragging us downstairs, he kept yelling, "Hurry up, hurry up, you have to leave the house immediately and never come back." He kept rambling on about my brother-in-law remaining under house-arrest indefinitely and without the right to see any of his family. As if we had not been through enough already, he laid into us and said, "You disgust me, you infidels. I look forward to receiving orders to come and visit you one day too. But believe me, the day I come for you, that will be the last day you'd be alive."

Nevertheless, they let us go and placed the General under house arrest. Two of the guards were assigned to watch him at all times, while the others, raided his home. They took anything that was of value including an antique and jewelled sword. The sword was given to my brother-in-law by the Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie during the 2500-year of Persian Empire anniversary in Iran for his outstanding service as the adjutant to the Emperor.

When we got home, I was going to call my mother because I was sure that she had been worried. Since it was late at night, I thought it might be better to call her the following day. Also, after what we had been through, I needed to take a little time to compose myself before calling her. Early next morning, the phone rang and woke me up. I got out of the bed and headed downstairs to find my husband talking fretfully on the phone. When he saw me half way down the stairs, he went quiet and handed me the phone with a dreadful expression. A bit shaken, I took the phone and said, "Hello." At the other end of the line, a sobbing voice came through; it was my mother. She had called to inform me that my uncle was arrested. The guards had shown up at his house in the middle of the night. He had been blindfolded and handcuffed, and had been thrown in vehicle and driven away. My mother was worried sick about her only brother, whom she loved very much. She wanted me to go over to his place and stay a while with his family who needed our support at a time like that. I promised to go as soon as I could. She also wanted to know where we had been for the past three days. I said I would tell her about that when I met her. As soon as I got off the phone, my husband and I got ready to go visit my uncle's family.

What we saw on the way to my uncle's resembled a battle-field. We passed by barricaded roads, half burned buildings, broken windows, scattered paperwork all over sidewalks and streets, closed or semi closed shops, soldiers with blood stains on their uniforms, and dead or injured still lying here and there. This really was not the Tehran we lived in rather, it was a war zone. On the way to my uncle's home, we were stopped three times in the vicinity of the military and civil aviation facilities. We were forced to get off the car so that both we and our car could be searched. A half-hour drive took us nearly two hours that day just to get to my uncle's.

To see them in those conditions was heartbreaking; they looked distressed and inconsolable. My uncle's wife explained that the guards had come pounding on the door in the middle of the night, and, ironically enough, two of them had been their own neighbour's sons. As soon as my uncle had opened the door, they had kicked him to the ground, handcuffed him, and blindfolded him. He had also been kicked in the stomach and back before being dragged into a car. The family had run after him crying and pleading with the guards, but all they got was a callous response from one of the guards stating that they could come pick up his corpse from the station later. It took two excruciatingly long days until we received news that he was soon to return to his family. We were not sure whether there was any truth to what we were told or whether it was their way of tormenting us further. We had no choice but to wait and find out.

One day came a knock on the door. Scared that it might be the guards again, we were hesitant to open the door. To be on the safe side, we sent the kids hiding upstairs. Suddenly, we heard a male voice shouting from behind the door telling us to open the door and assuring us that it was my uncle who was at the door. We rushed to the door and two men who were grabbing my uncle by his arms brought him into the house. He looked something awful with his head bandaged up, bags under his eyes, bruises on his face and hands, and all hunched up. We put him in bed to let him rest.

My uncle lost his job, his rank as an officer in the gendarmerie, and his income. The fifteen and seventeen year old sons of his neighbour, who had joined the revolutionary guards, had accused him of being a member of Shah's secret police, which in turn had got them a reward for his arrest. The allegation was inevitably unfounded and he was acquitted by order of Ayatollah Taleghani and the Prime Minister Mehdi Bazargan.

A few months later, he sadly suffered a heart attack and came down with diabetes. The last time I ever saw him was in 1985, shortly before I left for Sweden. He did not look good and he was saddened that I had to leave. Four years later, he died of cancer. I lost someone whom I truly loved and admired.

### Bus-tour to Turkey & Greece

In the summer of 1980, I took an all-inclusive, bus-tour to Turkey and Greece with my daughter. This was the first time for me to not only travel abroad by bus, but also to travel under the new regime and its barbaric laws. Law enforcement had become a laughable matter or perhaps an alarming one as the experienced, skilled officers had been replaced by illiterate, young, and unqualified members of Khomeini's revolutionary guards from small towns and villages. It was frustrating to go through Iranian Customs at the border of Iran and Turkey since the new customs officers had no idea how to perform their job. To our surprise, the experience at the Turkish Customs office was no better since we were asked for U.S. dollars just to get our passports stamped; something we never had to pay for in accordance with the standing agreements between the two countries. Nonetheless, we left the sad state of both customs offices behind us and headed toward Ankara first, and then Istanbul. While the roads were in poor condition, the landscape was fascinating particularly, those by the hill of the famous mountain range of Ararat. There was in fact, no reason for the roads to be in the condition they were since every year, the Turkish government received huge sum of money from Iran to repair and maintain those roads that were so vital to Iran's trade and commerce.

Along the way and passing through small villages, one could see poverty everywhere; children running back and forth on the roads, risking their lives to beg for food or money, and throwing rocks at the cars of those who would not give them anything. One also had to watch out for those Turkish traffic police whom had to be bribed—be it with a pack of smokes, or a pack of razor blades, or money—to avoid getting a phoney ticket. I kept thinking to myself, it was a mistake taking a bus tour to another insecure and lawless country. If it was not for my father who had spoken so passionately about his experience in Turkey, I would have never decided to visit that country. When he was young, my father had studied in Turkey and had become fascinated by the country. So I wanted to go to Turkey to see things and experience things for myself. I know that afterward, when I came back from my trip to Turkey, I found myself in agreement with my father. The bleakness of those initial encounters seemed to fade away in light of people's warmth, friendliness, and hospitality. The Turkish cuisine, the great historic sites and buildings, and much like Iran, the rich and ancient history of Turkey were all remarkable. I was reminded of the great poet Jalaleddin Rumi who was born in 1207 in the city of Balkh in Khurasan (near Mazar-e-Sharif in today's Afghanistan) which back then was a part of the Persian Empire.

Rumi was initiated into Sufism and was the founder of the Sufi brotherhood. The tradition of Sema dance which has been carried out by dervishes originates from the Sufi brotherhood. Rumi settled in Konya in 1240 and became a Sufi teacher. Rumi's teachings promoted love as the means of spiritual growth and enlightenment. He believed in and taught about general tolerance toward all people and all faiths as illustrated in his following statement.

Whoever you may be, come

Even if you are

a non-believer, a heathen, or a fire-worshiper, come

Our brotherhood is not one of despair

Even if you have broken

your promises of self-improvement a hundred times,

come.

After spending a week in Turkey, we continued our journey to Greece; yet, another remarkable country that had a long history with the ancient Persia. It was then that Darius the Great who came to power in 522 BC attacked Greece. Later, it was, in turn, Alexander the Great who defeated Darius III and conquered the mighty Persian Empire; he also burned the historic Persian palace of the Persepolis.

Our journey continued towards Athens. The roads were a little better than the roads in Turkey, but the country's atmosphere and the people's warmth and hospitality were exactly the same as in Turkey. The visit to the Acropolis reminded me of the Persepolis in Persia. The funny thing that happened to my daughter and me in Athens was that, one day, we left the group and took a boat to go visit three popular islands. At the first island, the boat stayed long enough that we managed to go around a bit and even grab a bite to eat at a restaurant. When the boat got to the second island, many of us got off the boat without hearing what was said over the speakers. We went walking around, shopping and taking pictures without taking note of the time, or being aware that the boat would leave without us. A sales-person in one of the stores pointed at the harbour and said something in Greek, which we did not understand. My daughter went out to look and came back all stressed informing me that the boat was gone. We rushed out, but by then, the boat was far way from us and on its way to the third island. We were in a panic especially, since we could not speak Greek, and we had no idea how to get back to Athens. I was also missing my little bag that was on the boat. We were lucky that ultimately, an English-speaking shopkeeper came to our rescue. He told us not to worry as we could board another boat that was on its way to the island to get to Athens.

All and all, the trip went well and we saw so much of both countries, and after three weeks, it was time for us to head back home. Except to reunite with my family, whom I longed to see, I had no desire to go back to that satanic land. On our way home, we heard startling news that had to do with people's uprising against a new law in reference to veil. I could not believe my ears, but once home, my husband told me those women, who had once protested against Shah and had chosen to voluntarily wear veil, had demonstrated against the new law forcing them to wear head-scarves. Their objection had been met with violence and thousands of women had ended up being arrested, beaten, or imprisoned by the revolutionary guards. To add insult to the injury, they had also been called street-walkers and whores by their beloved leader Khomeini in one of his speeches. As of that point, women whose hijab (trans. veil) were found unsatisfactory were subjected to revolutionary guards' massive brutality. Women dared not even get their nails done since any woman with long, polished nails would find her hands placed in a bag full of cockroaches by the revolutionary guards. They used to wipe off women's lipsticks with cotton that was either soaked in acid, or contained broken razor blades. We were forced to live under tyranny. Every mullah and even every criminal who was now a revolutionary guard could decide over our lives and make up new rules and policies.

### Election day – Yes or no to the Islamic Republic of Iran

The Islamic government decided to hold an election. They ordered every Iranian over sixteen years of age to participate in the election. To ensure compliance with the order, the ID cards of the participants were to be stamped, which in turn would allow them to continue receiving coupons to buy food, gasoline, and any other necessities offered according to the monthly ration plan. Thus, willing or not, everyone showed up at the polls. And willing or not, everyone voted 'yes'. Who dared vote 'no'? Revolutionary guards were present at every polling station and they watched people very carefully. Two sets of ballot papers were laid out on the tables, one set in green for 'yes', and one set in red for 'no'. One had to pick his or her choice of ballot in front of the revolutionary guard's piercing eyes and cast it in the ballot-box. I had made up my mind not to go and vote so, I was home when the phone rang. It was my husband who had called to advise me that if I wanted to have my passport renewed in future, or to continue working, or even to be able to buy groceries, I had better go and vote. He begged me to go vote since, as he put it, we had already been harassed by them so many times, and we did not need to make matters worse for ourselves. So, I, like millions of Iranians, had no choice but to vote.

Not surprisingly, the Islamic government had received a hundred percent 'yes' votes. The first official decision taken by the government was to demand Shah to be turned over to Iran, and to place a high price reward on his head.

All foreign schools including the Italian school of Don Bosco, where three of my sons went to, were closed down and turned over to mullahs or revolutionary guards. The foreign schools' administration were falsely accused of espionage and arrested.

The madness carried on and the next blow came when people's passports were declared invalid by the government. As a result, forty million people were trapped inside the country, and had, all of sudden, become prisoners. After two years of delays, the government, finally, issued a new passport bearing the emblem of the Islamic Republic in 1982. Due to new criteria for background checks of applicants, millions of people were simply denied passports and were barred from leaving the country.

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### The war between Iran & Iraq

The Iran-Iraq war lasted from September 1980 to August 1988. Khomeini initiated the war against Iraq as a way to divert people's attention from what was going on inside the country. He needed a distracter to get people's mind off their miserable state of living, and what better way but to occupy their minds with the horrors of war.

### Eight years of war

In August 1980, I flew with a few of my friends to Germany and then Italy. I was mainly going abroad for a medical procedure that I could not have in Iran due to the shortcomings in the medical system. After the revolution, medical care and services had been badly impacted, and there was a shortage of doctors, hospital beds, medication, and so forth.

While gone, I called home regularly and talked to my children because I was worried about the ongoing internal skirmishes. On one hand, the regime had waged war against the Iranian Kurds; and, on the other, the Mujahedeen's supporters had launched attacks against the regime. Almost every week, a bomb would go off at a Friday prayer in Tehran or some other city killing a mullah. Each evening, there would be gun-fires and clashes similar to those before the revolution, only this time, against the Islamic regime.

The surgery went well, and I was released from the hospital. Once back at the hotel, I realized that my friends looked a bit worried and stressed. However out of concern for my health, they did not tell me anything until I had fully recovered. It turned out that the war between Iran and Iraq had broken out, and since Tehran's airport had been damaged, we could not fly directly to Tehran. I started to panic and tried calling my children over and over. After countless attempts, I finally got through. It was a great relief to hear their voices and know that they were fine.

Due to the ongoing war, there were no direct flights from Italy to Iran so we had to fly to Bulgaria first, which was, at the time, under a communist regime. There, at the airport, we were met by the Bulgarian security officials and police. We were taken to the Customs office, where in addition to a luggage inspection, we also got a full body search. Some of our belongings like coats that we had bought in Germany were seized. Also, if anyone had any Bulgarian currency, that was taken as well. The airport was small, dark, and dirty, with cigarette butts all over the place. Out of fear, no one dared say anything or object to the confiscation of their personal belongings. It also did not help that there was no way of communicating as they either pretended, or they really could not speak English. Once the gruelling inspection was over, we were given a three-day transit visa to enter the country. We were then, driven by taxi to a remote residential area in the suburb of Sofia. We were housed in an apartment with three rooms and a kitchen. The superintendent was an old woman whose hunched back, wrinkled face, and deformed fingers were indicative of a harsh life. Her simple and broken bed, which was covered with a ragged and dirty, woven bedspread, sat in the corner of the kitchen. The police, who escorted us there, warned us not to touch anything in that room like ornaments or books. He also told us not to talk to the superintendent or give her anything. He gave us a set of keys and left. We were dead tired and extremely hungry. We had no idea where we were, or how far we were from downtown; we just assumed that we must be somewhere close to the downtown area. As such, we went out expecting to find a restaurant nearby to no avail. We had no choice but to take a taxi downtown, which happened to be several miles away from where we were staying. It was eight o'clock in the evening when we got off the taxi in front of a hotel, where we thought we would definitely be able to get a bite to eat. We approached the hotel only to be turned away by the concierge who in broken English said, "No, finish." We understood that to mean that the restaurant was closed. We walked a bit around in those well-lit, almost deserted streets. With hardly anyone on the streets and all stores closed, the city looked and felt like a ghost town. We were ready to throw in the towel when we, unexpectedly, came up to a little old restaurant that was getting ready to close for the night. We sat at a dirty and broken table, and ordered the only one meal that they could serve us at that time of the night namely, grilled chicken. We washed down the dry, grilled chicken with a glass of warm and tasteless beer.

Next morning, we had to go back to the city since there was not even a kettle in the apartment to boil water for tea or coffee. Seeing the city slums at daytime, filled with people, was quite a different site. As interesting as it was for us Iranians to see women driving streetcars or buses, it was heartbreaking to see elderly women sweeping the streets or to see the city slums. In downtown Sofia, there was a store exclusively set up for tourists, where the only acceptable currency was U.S. dollar. It was a crime to bring Bulgarian currency into the country or to buy it on the street. The police patrols were everywhere, and it seemed that everyone in that country was under constant surveillance. In the meanwhile, many young girls and women were openly engaged in the act of prostitution in public. Although my country was devastated by the revolution, I really felt sorry for the people in that poor country. It was not fair that people worked like slaves and lived a life that was extremely substandard. After three days, we left that impoverished, communist country ruled with an iron fist.

Given our own harsh and Islamic system, it was rather bizarre to feel sorry for the Bulgarian people. Nonetheless, we needed to get home, and due to the bombings of Tehran airport, our only option was to take a bus from Bulgaria to Turkey and then to Iran. Travelling down the highway in Bulgaria, which was in great condition, we passed by houses and buildings on the sides of the highway that looked so nice and so different from what we had seen in Sofia. On our way, we even stopped at a restaurant which looked modern, had very nice staff, and even served great food (with cold beer). If I had only seen these images and not those in Sofia, I would have surely thought of their country and their system of government to be wonderful.

At sunset, the bus stopped at the border where we had to get off, take our luggage, and walk a good distance to the Bulgarian Customs office. They were very strict and painfully slow. From there, we continued on to the Turkish Customs. After what seemed like an eternity and lots of questions and answers, our passports were finally stamped. On the way to Istanbul, the bus got pulled over by the Turkish police, who, after getting a pack of smokes from the driver, let the bus go. We also had to stop a couple of times on the road to eat. If it was not for the fact that we were famished, I do not think we would have ever dared eating in those gross, rusty and filthy shacks. The state of bathrooms in those places was also horrifying. Toilettes consisting of just a hole in the muddy and slippery ground, with no doors rather hanging fabric. Anyhow, it took two days to get to Istanbul. My friends and I rushed to a news-stand that was next to the bus terminal and, in sheer horror, glanced at the pictures in the papers. We looked at each other in disbelief and with tears in our eyes. According to the articles in the Turkish newspapers, Iraq had bombed Iran and many cities lay in utter ruins. Although we were exhausted from that long bus trip, we had no interest in staying in Istanbul as we desperately wanted to get home as fast as we could. Heading out of Istanbul, none of us was in the mood to talk. We wept in silence as we were all concerned for our families back home. At the Turkish border, we hustled to get our passports stamped and to get ourselves to the Iranian Customs. The Iranian Customs' counters were closed and all Customs officers were outside inspecting each and every vehicle. That meant we had to open our baggage for inspection right there by the bus and out in the yard. A variety of alcoholic beverages like whiskey, wine and vodka, along with other items such as, clothes, jackets, shoes, pornographic magazines and videos were taken out of people's luggage and seized. To this date, I have to wonder what became of all those items that were seized by the Customs officers. Once the inspection was over, we ran to the telephone booths. When I heard my children's voice, I burst into tears. They told me they were doing fine and there was no reason to worry. On the way to Tehran, we passed by small and large villages and towns. To our surprise, we did not see a single sign of war anywhere, nor did we see any towns or villages desolated. According to the Turkish newspapers, we should have found Iran completely ravaged.

We finally reached Tehran. We passed by the Shayad Square which was close to the international Mehr Abad airport, and built by the order of Shah in 1971. While there were no damages to the infrastructure in Tehran, we did notice people moving about in a panic-stricken manner. We saw tanks, armoured cars, and armed soldiers in military jeeps guarding the streets. None of us Iranians could ever imagine a war between Iran and Iraq, or with any neighbouring country for that matter. Now we were in an unwanted war. Ironically enough, Saddam Hussein had always been interested to go to war with Iran, and many years before the revolution, he did make a failed attempt; luckily, he was shut down by Shah in only a matter of twenty-four hours. Back then, Iran responded to Saddam's attack by bombing Baghdad whereby, Saddam had been forced to cease and desist immediately. Now after the revolution, he was, at last, given the golden opportunity to attack Iran by Khomeini and the world powers.

In any case, the bus continued to Fisher-Abad street in north of Tehran, and to the modern bus terminal called TBT. It was past eight o'clock in the evening when we got off the bus. It was pitch dark in the streets as the street lights were all out. I asked a passer-by why the lights were out, and I was told that due to air-raids, a black-out had been in effect every night. There were no taxis or even regular cars that used to be on the road as 'black-taxis'. I stood there on the street, and had no idea what to do, and how to get home. I could hear the occasional screams and swearing from people directed at those lighting a smoke, or driving with their headlights on, hence compromising the black-out. Too bad, they could not yell at the moon in the sky. All the yelling and screaming of the people had unnerved me to no end of tomorrow. This was the hellish life that the damn mullahs had given us. I blamed the Iranian people, those fools who a year earlier shouted slogans against Shah and his last prime minister, Shapor Bakhtiar, warning them not to delay Khomeini's return to Iran. What were they so much in rush for? Were they eager for death, execution, imprisonment, torture, being stoned to death, getting lashed, oppression, veils, grief, suffering, exodus, seeking asylum and living in exile, poverty, foreclosures, unemployment, rations, and now the worst and the unthinkable WAR?!

I was angry that we had to pay for other people's stupidity. I was tired, annoyed, and scared; I just wanted to get home. To have come back to this hell of a land, Iran, the land I loved and hated at the same time; a country that no longer felt like my country and seemed rather foreign. I certainly wanted to leave this country at the first signs of the civil unrest, but unfortunately my husband did not. He was overly optimistic and perhaps, gullible in thinking that everything would surely work out, and there was nothing I could do to make him change his mind. But now that I live in exile, in my little apartment in Hammarby Sjöstad in Stockholm, I think back and remember his words. Now, I can really understand him much better. He obviously had a better insight into the realities of life. He had a Ph. D. in law; he was a successful lawyer, and a certified translator in English and French. We lived in a big house; he had his law office, other properties, and much more. We had a fabulous life. If he were to leave Iran, he certainly would not have been able to work as a lawyer from day one in a foreign country. Perhaps, he would have been forced to accept a cleaning or a dish-washing job. At best, he might have found work as a cashier, or a taxi driver. And at worst, he would have become a social-benefit recipient, collecting welfare and feeling worthless! How was he to tolerate that kind of life style, or deal with discrimination and prejudice?

Standing there over an hour for a taxi and watching the street becoming more and more deserted was absolutely nerve-racking. All of a sudden, an overloaded bus showed up. The bus driver opened the door and told us, who were standing on the side of the street, to get in as there were not going to be any taxis coming our way. I thought anything would be better than standing in the dark on a street. Even if the bus could only take me a few blocks, it would still be something as I would, at least, be a few blocks closer to home. We, somehow, got on the overcrowded bus with our luggage. Once we reached the Abbass Abad intersection, I had to get off since the bus was to continue straight. I desperately looked around to see if there was any car I could catch a ride with, and there was none. All by myself on the street, I was petrified and did not know what to do. Out of the blue, something unbelievable happened, something like a miracle. Out of nowhere, a military jeep showed up with a couple of soldiers in it. They asked me where I was going and offered to give me a ride. Unlike the heartless Khomeini's revolutionary guards who sat in their cars and drove past people without helping them, these were regular soldiers, young and kind.

The house sat there in complete darkness. I tried to open the door with my key and I could not. It seemed that the lock had been changed. I started banging on the front door with my fist and calling out for my children. Because of the power outage, I could not use the intercom, nor could anyone hear my cries due to the distance between the front door and the building itself. Finally, our next-door neighbour, who saw me from behind the window, called my family on the phone and told them I was at the door. My children rushed to the door and were so happy to see me.

It was hard for me to see my family living in a dark dungeon with curtains drawn, and with hanging thick sheets behind all windows that were already covered with black tapes. It did not take long before we heard loud bangs, which seemed to be familiar noises for my family, but not for me. On the little transistor radio, which was our only means of staying informed, came the warning for imminent air-raids. My children crawled under the covers as soon as they heard the air-raid siren. I understood that, apparently, that was the only type of protection one could have since there were no bomb-shelters in Iran.

The Iraqi military, which was in far superior shape than the Iranian military after the revolution, had invaded much of the country and could, therefore, launch air-raids against Tehran quite easily. Evenings were horrendous with a barrage of air-raid attempts, the constant sounding of the sirens, and the non-stop firing of the anti-aircraft missiles. There was pure chaos everywhere especially, as the criminal element took advantage of this tumultuous situation to rob, rape, and murder. People's misery was exacerbated once the oil refinery in southern Tehran was bombed by Iraqi planes as a result of which, stricter rationing policies came into effect. Men of all ages between 15 to 90 years old were being recruited for the so-called holy war. More people kept moving to Tehran as their cities turned to rubble by the bombings. Many properties that were confiscated after the revolution had either been given to, or forcibly taken over by the underprivileged, who had, for instance, never seen a modern bathroom and did not know how to use them. It was pathetic how more and more fine buildings and properties were being transformed into rundown hostels. This was, in a way, a reflection of the shortcomings of the previous regime to address the massive poverty in the country. The Pahlavi regime should have been ashamed of itself for its failure to provide a reasonable standard of living to all Iranians during its 50-years of being in power.

The war, eventually, became an ordinary part of life and people just got used to it. Thankfully, the air raids on Tehran became less frequent, and the city was spared from becoming a bloody battlefield. However, the misery carried on. Being afraid of an uprising, the government had closed down colleges and universities. No one could travel abroad and all the borders were still closed. By so doing, the government had ensured that boys who were of the military-service age did not leave the country and skip serving in the military. Many young adults were also recruited right out of high-schools into a religious militia called Basij. Age seemed to make little difference as the government sent even nine-year-old boys to war. The government managed to do so by playing a dirty trick on parents in that, parents were told that their children were going on a student visit to war zones. The regime used these young boys to jump on mines. Families were told that those who sacrificed their lives would go to heaven where they will be surrounded by 70 virgins. Moreover, any family who stood to lose a young son was promised to receive monetary rewards, a trip to holy cities of Mecca and Syria, and free rations.

In other parts of Iran, however, the war continued full force. Iraq attacked and ruined the entire southern Iran. The oil refinery in Abadan went up in flames. The province of Khozestan got levelled to the ground. Thousands of families were killed, maimed, or displaced. Countless children were orphaned. Women and children were raped and mutilated. Those who fled their war-torn towns and cities sought refuge in other places, and were, sadly, met with violence. First such incident occurred in Shiraz where a mullah named Ayatollah Dast-Ghaib called those who had left their homes behind traitors, and ordered them back to their hometowns to fight against Saddam's army. He also forbade city residents from housing or feeding the refugees. More such shameful incidents took place in cities across Fars province where refugees were beaten up in mosques, the so-called God's home, and forced to return to their towns and cities. So much for mullahs having a conscience. In Ayatollah Dast-Ghaib's case, however, it did not take long before he got blown up to pieces by a suicide bomber.

There was too much to worry about including, the concern over boys being snatched and drafted in to the military service. As for myself, I was worried sick about my four sons being taken away one by one to fight in war. To be sure, life was not easy for girls either. They could get into trouble for just being pretty, or for not wearing their headscarves properly. I remember running into trouble one day as my daughter and I were waiting to get a taxi. Since after the revolution it was forbidden for women to sit next to male passengers, we had to stand on the street until we could get a taxi with female passengers only. After a long wait, we managed to get a cab. But no sooner had we got in that we were ordered out of the cab by a revolutionary guard. When I questioned the reason for being pulled out of the cab, I was completely chewed out by the pesky revolutionary guard. I was definitely scared, but I did not want to lose face in front of an 18-year-old ignorant, vulgar boy, who had wrongly been entrusted with power by his darned leader. Nonetheless, he accused us of not having worn our veils properly, all the while, staring at my 14-year-old daughter and smiling at her. Moreover, he began to ask a series of irrelevant questions from my daughter like her age, her address, the name of the school she attended, her father's name and so forth. It had now become quite clear why we were being harassed. At this point, I could not contain myself any longer and went at him. Needless to say that he got mad and threatened to take us to the central committee to teach us a lesson. My heart began to pound in my chest as I was sure that we would get lashed if we ended up at the central committee. As I was struggling to find a way out of the situation, the store-keepers in the area who had known us for years caught on with what was going on and came to our rescue. They came forward and asked the revolutionary guard why we were held up so long on the street. Then they asked him for his identification card and the name of the committee he belonged to, which made him quite agitated. To our surprise, he had no identification card since he was an impostor. I was just so relieved at the way things turned out, and extremely thankful to those who came to our rescue. Who knows what would have become of us had it not been for those who came to our aid that day. The phoney guard got a few slaps from people before he ran away with his tail between his legs. Unfortunately, there were many similar events happening all over the place in a country gripped by lawlessness and mêlée.

### Living in wartime

From either side of the Persian Gulf, Iran and Iraq pounded each other with artillery rounds. A number of towns and cities that were located close to the border of Iran and Iraq took the heaviest pounding during the conflict. In Tehran, the situation was not as hectic or dire like that of the war-torn areas, but by no means was life peaceful or pleasant. There were our children's future to worry about; the problems with education system and schooling to deal with. There was an overall lack of qualified teachers and administrators in most high schools such as the one my eldest son, Ali, attended. Girls were slightly worse off since they also had to put up with the nonsense of hijab (trans. veil) at school.

Once private schools were taken over and turned into public schools, their management was handed over to ill-equipped and unqualified people. Prime example was the Italian school of Don Bosco, renamed to Andishe after the revolution, which ran elementary, secondary, and high school. As one of the modern and advanced schools in Tehran, Don Bosco became a highly religious school after the revolution and was run by mullahs and religious figures. It was a shame that such a great school, where three of my sons, Reza, Madjid, and Iraj attended, changed so dramatically and turned into a mosque instead of a school. The dining room, gymnasium, theatre, and auditorium were closed down. Music lessons and sports were banned. Instead, students had to attend Koran reading lessons and religion lectures every day.

Children were expected to show up at school on Thursday evenings to listen to the mullahs' preaching and to read verses of Koran. Extremely disturbing was the requirement for children to go with their teachers to Beheshte-Zahra cemetery on Friday mornings to participate in the Friday-prayers led by mullahs. Lack of participation in either one of those two activities had serious consequences on the academic progression of a student.

It was also forbidden for women to work or to visit boys' schools. Mothers were not allowed in the school buildings; rather, only the fathers could be in touch with schools' principals, administrators, or teachers. It was deemed inappropriate for a man to talk with a woman, or to look directly into her eyes. Even fully covered in veil, it was argued that a man could be aroused by looking at, or talking with a woman!

Insofar as work was concerned, I still ran my insurance company. I thought I could go on working even with that darn veil. But with all the harsh and ominous Islamic rules directed against women, life for women was but a struggle against fanaticism. At my office, the personnel consisted of a secretary, who was a young and beautiful twenty-year-old girl, and a janitor, who was a peasant boy of almost twenty years old. Not a day went by that we were not visited by a revolutionary guard who wanted to see if we wore our veils and observed the rules. To make matters worse, I was ordered by the revolutionary guards to fire my janitor because he was a guy. Despite being angry, I had no choice but to comply with the silly order. Whatever became of that young guy, I do not know. Maybe he was sent to war, maybe he was martyred, or injured; nobody knows.

I think the last straw for me was when I was denied access to meet with my male clients. As the insurance contracts I had sold would come up to their renewal dates, I, as always, would make appointments to meet with the clients in order to sign new ones. However, walking into companies and corporations, I could not get past the superintendent or the security guard's office. Apparently, I was being barred from seeing directors or CEOs because I was a woman! How could I fight such foolishness? I was a woman and the owner of an insurance company. I did not have a partner, let alone a male partner, and I certainly had no salesman to send in my place. That was it for me, and I realized that I had to let go of my company. So, I sold my company, suspended my ambitions of being an active woman, and went right back to the kitchen. After all, kitchen was exactly where the religious extremists wanted women to be. According to hard core fanatics, a woman's place was at home, in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant.

As I now (in 2011) live in freedom in the land of Sweden, and watch the miserable life of Afghani women on Swedish media, I see what future would have been like for Iranian women, had the mullahs fully succeeded in their devious plans. Those darned mullahs wanted to turn women's lives into an absolute hell, something even more sinister than what it has been so far. But thanks to women's resistance in Iran, such initiatives could never be fully implemented.

Fortunately, Iranian women were not prepared to live a passive life. So far, in all of the 32 years of oppression, Iranian women have never stopped fighting back. Women's struggle for a better and more autonomous life has been accompanied with their tears, sweat, and blood, but they have never surrendered. Although they still have a long and difficult road ahead of them, they will surely carry on the crusade against injustice. I would like to take the opportunity here and offer them my very best wishes; my hats off to them for their lifelong struggle.

### The day of reckoning in Tehran

The country seemed to be in mourning from dawn to dusk over thousands of its dead and injured. There was a steady flow of coffins heading to all parts of Iran including Tehran on an almost daily basis. Saddam's military was in far better shape and much better equipped than that of Iran. All the modern weaponry that had been put at Saddam's disposal by the world's powers had given him the edge over Iran. For the most part, it was the young and innocent lives that were being shattered by the ravages of war. The small children of 9 to 12 years of age who had been brainwashed so easily and effortlessly by mullahs and sent to their death.

Those others were either manipulated to think that they were fighting against Islam's enemies, which was absurd considering that Iraq was also a Muslim country, or were committed to the regime's cause as members of the religious militia (Basij) or revolutionary guards. Khomeini's debauched government had a plastic key, called 'the paradise key', manufactured in Thailand and distributed amongst volunteers who were led to believe that if killed, they would go to heaven, and their families would be well looked after by the regime.

The war with Iraq on one hand, and the internal clashes between the regime and the Mujahedeen on the other, had ultimately brought the country to its knees. Constant bombings of the public places meant that nowhere was safe anymore. Yet the worst was still to come with the Iraqi fighters reaching Tehran and bombing the city.

Oddly enough, the air-raid siren would always sound after the actual air-raids, hence leaving us completely helpless and defenceless. We could feel the entire city shaking with the drop of the bombs. Collapsed buildings, caved-in roofs, shattered windows, and tons of debris were stark indications of the relentless bombings. Most tragic was the sheer number of lives lost under the cover of the night when the air-raids were carried out. The cemetery was sure a busy place; divided into three sections, one for those called martyrs, one for ordinary people, and one for the mass burial of the enemies of the regime like Mujahedeen. No one was allowed to hold any funeral ceremonies at the site of the mass graves. No headstones, flowers, or candles were allowed to be placed on such graves. And the families of those buried in mass graves, who did not even know whereabouts in that large area their loved ones were buried, were to be treated with outmost cruelty and humiliation at the time of their visits. Every brutal encounter that occurred in that area, which was nothing more than a big gravel pit, was deliberately aired on television as a means of deterring others from taking a stand against Khomeini and his regime. Another gruesome television sending that those of us in the Old Road of Shemiran area had the misfortune of receiving, due to our closeness to the frequency range of its transmission, were the heinous events going on inside the Ghasr prison and shown on its close-circuit television.

One day, I was busy in the kitchen making lunch. Suddenly, I heard my son screaming. Scared of what might have happened to him, I ran to the living room as fast as I could, and I found him standing still in front of the TV. Looking pale and frightened, he pointed at the TV screen, and in a trembling voice, he told me, "Mom, they are going to cut his fingers!" At first, I thought he was watching a horror movie so I told him he was not supposed to watch scary movies, and that he should turn the TV off. But all of sudden, I myself was struck by absolute horror and had a difficult time understanding what I was seeing. I kept hearing my son screaming distressingly that the man was going to lose his fingers and that we should do something. I was appalled and could not believe the hideousness and barbarity of the punishment that was about to be carried out in that prison yard.

At the prison yard, which looked more like a stadium, the prisoners were seated around on rows of benches. A young man lay on his stomach on the ground and was surrounded by a physician, revolutionary guards, and prison guards. One of the guards had put his foot on the prisoner's back while; another guard was reading a few verses from the Koran that had to do with the sin of stealing and its punishment. The guard then pointed to the prisoner, and declared that the 18-year-old man had committed the crime of stealing a loaf of bread, and as such, four fingers on his right hand had to be cut off in accordance with the Islamic laws. The grisly process of carrying out the sentence that followed immediately thereafter, with the young man's fingers being clipped one by one, was the most barbaric and sadistic act belonging to the era of Dark Ages and completely out of this world.

Why not instead investigate why this person had done what he had done? Or perhaps try to help the poor man out of poverty? Instead, the first time offenders would have four of their fingers cut off. The second time offenders would have their whole hands cut off. The third time offenders would lose their entire arms. And to commit the crime yet a fourth time, would get one executed. It is unfortunate that Iran went back 1400 years in time and implemented inhumane laws that closely mirrored those of the Islamic justice system of Saudi Arabia. We were surrounded by dreadful images of executions, stoning, and lashings in the media. For some, the experience was even more horrific as they would happen to come across a public hanging, or witness someone being stoned to death, or getting lashed, or see an executed person's body left dangling from a crane.

Islam, like all other religions, has brought misery to many not just in Iran, but all over the world. The Iranian people had inadvertently brought all this misery on themselves. They, apparently, did not know the consequences of their blind obedience and faulty judgement. They obviously had no clue of how Khomeini was going to run the country. All that he promised such as, freedom, development, progress, and so forth were just empty promises.

Life became more and more unbearable by every passing day. Everyday was just as miserable as the ones before it, and there was no hope for better days to come either.

### I got my truck and bus driver's license, 1983

In spring of 1983, before my son signed up for the military service, I started thinking about something almost unreal in a religious and patriarchal society. I thought about getting my truck and bus license.

I was burning with the desire to do something more than just to cook, to do house-keeping, and to take care of children. I was ambitious and believed women were meant to do more than just to raise children and be house-wives. I myself had hoped to work as a pilot and an entrepreneur. I was very sad, disappointed, and depressed by the existing and demeaning status of women. In rebellion, I could not help but do something to the contrary to prove mullahs wrong as far as women's role in the society was concerned. Women are required by the teachings of the Koran to blindly obey and never to question. It is nothing short of insulting to accept that women are only created to serve men, and to forever remain inferior to their male counterparts.

I wanted to be a role model if not for all Iranian women, but, at least, to some so that they never submit to subjugation. I eagerly wanted to prove that women are just as willing and capable to do what a man can do. Therefore, I decided to get my truck and bus license. My husband was a bit taken aback when I told him what I intended to do. He asked me startlingly if I wanted to work as a truck or bus driver. I told him that it was not at all what I had in mind; rather, I just wanted to discredit those idiots who loved to put women down all the time. I went further to say that life had become suffocating for me, and I felt like a prisoner of the veil, locked up at home. I needed a new inspiration and I needed to feel alive again. They wanted to bury us women alive under the veil and between the four walls of our homes, and I could not let that happen. He was afraid that I might be arrested by the revolutionary guards. But I was stubborn and I wanted to hold on to however small of a hope to break free from the invisible shackles.

I got in touch with a friend of ours who owned an import/export company. He had a fleet of trucks in his company and lots of experience in the industry. At first, he was rather sceptical about the whole thing. But once he realized that I was determined to go ahead with my idea with or without his help, he promised to put me in touch with one of his truck drivers for training purposes. The next day, I got a call from him telling me that one his drivers could spare some time to meet me and discuss the issue. I met with a Mr. Amiri who was an old and experienced driver. Upon seeing me, he could not wipe the smirk off his face. I was a tiny and petite woman, and he must have found that quite amusing. As somewhat expected, he first tried to discourage me from pursuing my idea by telling me how difficult it was to handle a truck, and how this was not a woman's job. He questioned how I was going to change a flat tire on a truck, or drive long distances on my own, or carry out similar tasks. Eventually, I got frustrated, got up, and while thanking him for his time, headed for the door. He looked perplexed and asked me where I was going. I told him I was there to get advice on how to get my license, and not to be bombarded with negativity. Once he realized that I was serious, he got on with the training session. We got on his tractor-trailer where he quickly went over a few things about the panel instruments, the gears, and so on. Then, with two of my children, who were with me that day, we headed out. It was late in the evening and not a lot of traffic on the road. After a short while, he asked me if I wanted to try driving a little bit. Without hesitation, I answered with a big yes. We switched places, and I began to slowly but surely drive the eighteen-wheeler along the highway. After seeing that I was not afraid and could handle driving a big tractor-trailer, he promised to help me find a good driving school and so he did. After a few months of training, my driving-instructor suggested that I sign up for the test.

The day of the test, I was supposed to show up early in the morning. When I got there, there were a whole bunch of men standing in the queue to register for the test. They were typical truck drivers, tall, muscular, and strong. They all kept looking at me, but I was sure they never thought I was there to also take the test. Rather, they must have thought that I was there to save a place in the queue for a male relative of mine. While standing in the line up, an officer came over to us and went over the examination rules. He then turned around to me and ordered me to leave the queue since only the actual applicants were to be standing in the line up. Infuriatingly, I looked at him and said, "I am actually here to get my license." There was suddenly a clamour in the crowd, who stared at me either in amazement or with contempt.

When it came to my turn, I got on the truck and listened carefully to the officer's orders and instructions. Ironically, men had to drive only twice around the field whereas I was made to drive around yet, a third time. The officer was obviously hoping for the slightest bit of mistake to fail me. But to my delight and everyone's surprise, I passed the test with flying colours. Before stepping off the truck though, the officer could not resist asking me whether I intended to work as a truck driver. I replied back, "No, I only wanted to prove that women can also do this." After writing and passing the theory test as well, I had my license to prove my point.

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### Ali's military service, 1983

We were concerned about our children's future, and most of all about my eldest son, Ali. After both he and my daughter finished their high-school and got their driver's licenses, we bought cars for them. However in my son's case, we had to put the ownership of the car in my name since boys could not buy anything, work, or get married before finishing their mandatory military service. As the only way out, we encouraged him to enrol at university. Both my son and my daughter enrolled for the university entrance exam in the summer before the universities started. We were happy once they passed the test, however, our happiness was short lived as they were both denied entrance to the university on the account of family background check. Successful students were those whose families had ties with the regime, or were supporters of the regime. Not only we did not meet these criteria, quite the contrary, we had relatives who were either sentenced to death or in jail awaiting sentencing. This did not just impact my kids, but also my younger sister who was not admitted to the university.

1983 marked the beginning of an even more hectic and uncertain time in our lives. My parents lived in a nearby city so in late spring, when schools were closed, I took my two younger sons there for a visit. I had, initially, thought of staying there for a few days, but in the afternoon of the very first day, an uneasy feeling came over me. I became anxious and restless for no reason, and started to worry that something might have happened at home. The feeling of anxiety became so overwhelming that I packed our bags and headed home. I drove like a maniac and after two hours, which seemed like an eternity, we got home. My daughter was a bit shocked to see us home that soon. I told her I had a bad feeling and I had to come home. I then asked her frantically if anything had happened to her father or her brothers that I should know about. She looked at me and said everyone was alright except Ali . . . She went silent for a moment, and I felt like I was about to pass out. I screamed, "What? What about Ali?"

She said, "Mom, Ali went and enrolled in the military!" My head started to spin, and it felt like my whole world had crumbled right there and then. I slumped to the ground and started crying. What should we do now? How can we save him from the peril of war? I could not bear the thought of him going to war as it meant encountering death at every second of every day. I was also petrified that my other sons might decide to follow suit one after another. All devastated, I asked my daughter where Ali was, and whether he had already gone on training. She told me that he was not gone yet, and that he was at his friends at that moment.

I wondered if my husband knew about it, and how he took the news. According to my daughter, he was heartbroken by what had transpired, and he, too, was at a loss. My daughter tried to console me by saying that Ali could not have lived his entire life confined at home. That sooner or later, he would have had to join the military; otherwise, he would have never been able to get a job, get married, and, generally speaking, to live a normal life. But she was not his mother, and thus she, like others, could not understand the way I felt as a mother. He was my baby, he was a part of me. It was I who carried him for nine months and almost died giving birth to him. It was I who nursed him day and night. How can anyone understand a mother's feeling? It was with his birth in my tender age of 16 that I got to feel the joys of motherhood for the first time in my life.

With my son's decision, we were doomed to live a life full of tears and sorrow. The time was limited. I could hardly hold back the tears regardless of where I went, or what I did. The fact that I hated Khomeini and his followers was nothing new, but this brought that hatred to a whole new level. There was not a single house in Iran that was not in grief as a result of the loss of a loved one.

That evening when Ali came home, he immediately noticed that I had already been made aware of his enrolment in the military. It must have been my red and swollen eyes that gave it away. By no stretch of imagination was he feeling any better about his enrolment either, but in the absence of other options, he had to do what he had to do. To live in hiding forever was no kind of life for anyone particularly, a young man. The situation was not unique to my son, rather, thousands of young people including his own friends were in the same boat that is, they were forced to sign up for military service.

In spring of 1983, Ali was assigned to his first regiment, and two months later, he was reassigned to another regiment. My heart ached every time they moved him around. To me, it felt like I had already lost him. It did not take long before I got the long-dreaded news that my son was to be deployed to the frontline. I was beside myself and felt helpless by the whole ordeal. My health started to deteriorate; I came down with excruciating pain and bleeding in my lower abdomen. I could not sit, sleep, or walk. After a few visits to the doctor's office and a series of tests, I was informed that I had to undergo a surgery. I felt sorry for myself, but, more so, for my family; we had already gone through so much together in the past few years. Now a surgery, which in reality made it my third surgery in a matter of four years. The operation was long and, apparently, so was my recovery from the anaesthesia. To make matters worse, once I had finally come to, I had failed to recognize my family who were there with me. It took another twenty-four hours before I gained full consciousness. I was, finally, discharged from hospital after eight long, agonizing days.

### The pre-deployment phase

On the day Ali was to receive his orders with regard to the pre-deployment training, all of us followed him to the military base. Once there, we had to anxiously wait by the entrance gate. I kept praying to God that he would get to do his three-months, pre-deployment training in Tehran and not be posted somewhere else. The suspense was killing me. I was so angry and upset that I even snapped at my husband, blaming him for what had happened to my children especially, Ali. I told him that we had a perfect opportunity to move from that darned country to a safer and better country before the bloody revolution. I said we did not have to suffer so much misery if he had been more receptive of my ideas. I knew that from then on, we were to be constantly worried and in turmoil over Ali's safety. We also had to be prepared that our other sons would soon end up in the same situation. I was so furious that I wanted to smash everything around me. My uncle came over to me, all chocked up himself, he gave me a hug and begged me to bring my voice down. He whispered in my ear that the revolutionary guards were talking amongst each other while pointing at me. Sure enough, no sooner had my uncle warned me that the revolutionary guards confronted me. One of the guards shouted at me that if I did not keep my big mouth shut, I would get arrested. I asked him, "Don't you have a mother? How would she feel if you were being sent to war?" The belligerent guard replied coldheartedly that if his mother was to prevent him from sacrificing his life for his master, Imam Khomeini, then he would put a bullet in his mother and kill her himself.

The waiting game dragged on for the better half of the day. We all stood there under the hot son and with so much going through our heads. Women had to put up with the added burden of wearing the veil in such a hot and humid day. The sweat was dripping like a waterfall from my body under that thick and dark veil. After an awfully long and agonizing waiting period, the guys finally started to come out with their papers in their hands. Ali came rushing over and told us that his section was posted to a military base in the city of Kerman for their pre-deployment training.

Kerman is a city in south-eastern Iran by an oasis in the desert of Dasht-e Lut (trans. Lut Desert) with many historic buildings. It is the capital of Kerman province. The city is located over nine hundred kilometres south of Tehran and is surrounded by the Zagros mountain ranges, giving Kerman a very warm climate. The city was founded in the 3rd century A.D., and had great significance for those who traveled along the trade routes between Iran and India. Over the centuries, various rulers reigned over the city such as, the Arabs, Seljuks, and Mongols. Until a few years ago, Kerman was a good starting point for those who wanted to visit the 2000-year-old fortress city of Bam, two hundred kilometres to the south of Kerman. Bam was one of the finest tourist destinations in Iran, but was destroyed by an earthquake at Christmas of 2003, in which 10,000 people died. In Kerman, there is a small but culturally significant minority of Zoroastrians which comprises the second largest minority in Kerman after Sunnis. Kerman's handmade carpets are very well known worldwide.

### The pre-deployment training in Kerman

The train station was full of soldiers, their families, and friends. Everyone looked distraught and sad. They all talked at a million miles an hour with their loved ones who were going to Kerman. I was not the only mother in the crowd. For me, life had become dark, bitter and incredibly unfair. I did not understand why we as mothers should so helplessly stand by and gaze at the long train that was soon going to take our sons away from us. I was reminded of all those trains that took the Jewish people to Auschwitz, and I wondered if the same fate awaited our loved ones. My heart went out to all the victims of the atrocities committed in the Auschwitz camps; those who had no idea where they were being taken, and what was to become of them; those who left without even saying goodbye to their loved ones.

One had to wonder why Khomeini did not send his own son or his grandson to war. If he was so sure that those who die in war would become martyrs and would go straight to heaven then, why did he not volunteer his own flesh and blood for such opportunity?

The train started rolling. I along with everybody else ran alongside the train on the platform, crying incessantly while trying to catch a glimpse of our sons, one last time. All the soldiers had leaned over the windows, waving hysterically at their families. This was the second time that the train was taking somebody dear to me away from me. I remembered when shortly after Ali's birth, my mother had to leave me to join my father in Abadan. At the time, they were posted to Abadan, and they were to stay there for two years until my father's job to build Abadan's airport was completed. That day, too, I had cried hysterically, and I had felt the same pain as I did this time since that was the first time ever that my mother was moving far away from me. Even though I was married and had a newborn son, I could not help but feel alone in the world. I was, once again, feeling down in the dumps. The train took with it not only our beloved Ali, but my lust for life.

A few days later, which felt more like an eternity, Ali called home to let us know he had arrived at the base somewhere outside Kerman in an area called Sar-Asiab. In those few days before his call, I had neither left home nor had I let anyone use the phone. I was impatiently waiting to hear from him. I jumped every time the phone rang. All of our family and friends were worried too and were eager to know if he had called, or if we had heard from him. Touched by their concern, I had promised to call them as soon as I had heard from Ali. When I finally heard his voice, I felt overjoyed. He assured me that everything was fine; he was safe and sound, and there was nothing to worry about. It was quite clear that he could not talk openly as all the phone conversations were being listened to. What he could say though was that they were to stay in that location for their three-months training after which, they were to be split up and posted to new locations. However, as he put it, nobody knew where exactly they were going to end up! In the interim, they were going to get a ten-day leave to come home after their first forty days of training.

Forty days! I had to wait forty days before I could see him; that was insane. As we said goodbye on the phone, he promised to call back in a week. With tears flowing from my eyes, I put the phone down. The longing was too much to bear so, I decided that if he could not come to us, then, I should go to visit him in Kerman.

The day after I went to the travel agency and bought tickets to Kerman for the following week. I had decided to take a chance in the hope of seeing him. That evening, I told my husband and my other children that I wanted to go to Kerman, and that I had to see Ali. I went further to say that no one and nothing could stop me. I was worried and impatient, and no way could I carry on living in such melancholy.

Ali was absolutely dumbfounded and yet, happy when I told him about my plan. As their group had a half day off on Fridays, we could see each other during those hours. We planned to meet at Ganj Ali-Khan Hammam, a historical and ancient tourist place in Kerman. Ganj Ali-Khan Hammam is one of Iran's most interesting museums. It was built in 1631 in honour of the then city's governor called Ganj Ali-Khan. It contains a collection of wax statues that display various tasks that used to be performed in a traditional Persian hammam. The hammam consists of a cold room and a warm room which are under domes. In 1971, an ethnological museum was added to that infrastructure.

Early in the morning, I went to the airport carrying the large care packages that I had put together for Ali with all his favourite homemade cookies, jams, and so forth. Unfortunately though, I missed the direct flight to Kerman and lost a lot of money on that ticket. I had to then buy a new ticket that would only get me as far as the city of Yazd. From Yazd, I had to get a cab to drive me all the way to Kerman. Once in Yazd, I managed to get a taxi with another woman and two men who were also going to Kerman, and we were going to share the high cab fare. The woman passenger, who was a native of Kerman, told us she did not have enough money on her. She asked if anyone of us would lend her the money, and she promised to pay us back as soon as we arrived in Kerman. No one dared do so but me; she was a woman and I wanted to help her. I was also naive enough to believe that she would keep her promise. As soon as we got to Kerman, she disappeared without a trace.

The road between Yazd and Kerman ran along the edge of the desert. I was sweating bullets as I was wearing a heavy jacket, a pair of dark pants, and the mandatory headscarf that every women had been forced to wear. Anyway because of the delay in getting to Kerman, I missed seeing my son as his half-day leave had expired, and he had to return to the base. Despite being dead tired, hungry and thirsty, I immediately got on another taxi and headed to the base which was located in the middle of the desert in Sar-Asiab, between the cities of Kerman and Bam in south-eastern Kerman. The sunset in the desert was exceptionally beautiful. we passed by small, clayey, farmhouses and big farmlands. The citrus trees, the high and tall date-palms with large feathery leaves, they all looked magnificent. The roads were very familiar to me because I had driven on those roads many times with my family when we went to Kerman, Bam, and other cities along the desert before the revolution. In any case, we arrived at Sar-Asiab and the taxi pulled up in front of the base's entrance gate. I was immediately approached by a guard who wanted to know who I was and what I was doing there. I introduced myself and told him the reason for my being there, all the while, trying to hold back my tears.

I told him I had come all the way from Tehran and wanted to meet my son. He ordered me to stay where I was, and not to come forward. He then called the duty-officer, who was a young man and perhaps the same age or maybe a few years older than my son. He was a kind and courteous young man, someone who had compassion. We had a long discussion whereby he tried to convince me to go back to Tehran to no avail. He felt bad but according to him, the soldiers' leaves had expired and the next one was not until the following Friday. Hopelessly, I dropped to the ground, broke down, and cried. I pleaded with him to try to understand my feelings as a mother. I asked him how, after having come so far, I was to leave the place without seeing my son. My heartfelt plea must have got through to him since he agreed to give me ten minutes to see my son in his office. Darkness fell while I waited for my son. On one side, the shimmering, silvery stars were spread across the velvety, black sky, and in the west, a tiny glimpse of a glowing red color marked the sunset over the horizon. As I looked at a group of soldiers who had amassed behind the gate to watch the commotion I had caused, I felt sorry for all them, and deep down I cursed Khomeini. How could an old, stupid mullah callously put our young people's lives at risk?

Ali and I at the base in Sar-Asiab in Kerman Ali, forty-days old

Ali in the frontline

The long-awaited moment had finally come when I got to see my son. He was shocked and could not believe his eyes. I burst into tears and gave him a big hug. I could hear the group of spectators clapping from behind the gate and rejoicing in our moment of happiness. I had hardly said a few words to Ali when the duty-officer asked me, where I was staying the night and when I was returning to Tehran. I told him I was staying at a hotel that night, and I was flying back the next day. He then turned around to Ali and told him that if he promised not to try to escape, he could leave the base with me and report back for duty first thing in the morning. I was ecstatic to the point that I kissed the duty-officer's hand; something which in retrospect, could have got both of us into a lot of trouble. Ali went to drop off the care packages I had brought for him in his barracks. We got on the same taxi I had come in with and headed back to Kerman. We had dinner at a local restaurant, and we went looking for a hotel to stay overnight.

At the hotel, the receptionist did not believe we were mother and son. Out of the fear of getting arrested by the revolutionary guards for renting us a room—in case we had lied about who we were—he found it necessary to contact the base to confirm our identities. He also wanted to ensure that my son was really on leave and not a deserter. It took quite a while before the matter was resolved and we got a room at the hotel. I was exhausted but we had so much to talk about that we stayed up most of the night. Early in the morning, Ali returned to the base. I stood by the window until his taxi disappeared from the sight. The feeling of emptiness and hopelessness set in once again and tears started to run down my face.

The trip was over. Although I had succeeded to see my son, I was in no better shape than I was before. Nonetheless, I also had the rest of my family to worry about. I had to go home.

### The deployment

In the midst of all the misery, we were really excited about Ali's coming home on a 10-day leave after forty days of training. I was both happy and sad. Happy to see him and sad about him having to leave soon thereafter. I kept thinking to myself how I could let him go again. For the time being, however, I had to content myself with having him home even if it was just for a short visit.

To spend sometime together, we planned a family trip to northern Iran. After five hours of driving through the winding, mountainous roads, we reached Chalus which is a city in Mazanderan province by the Caspian Sea in northern Iran. We stopped at a rest area on the road to stretch our legs a bit and to drink a cup of coffee. We did not even get the thermos out before two revolutionary-guard patrols suddenly appeared from nowhere. They took my husband and my sons to one side and my daughter and I to another. They interrogated us as to who we were and what we were doing there. They smelled the water in the thermos to ensure there was no booze in it. They checked the car and our identification cards. They also asked for our marriage certificate, which a couple had to have on them at all times and everywhere. They cautioned us as to observe the Islamic rules, or else we would be in serious trouble. They stood there until we packed our stuff and drove away. The following day, we went on a boat tour on the Caspian Sea. Some distance away from the beach, one of the boat owners turned to my son and said, "Ali, how are things going for you?" Taken by surprise, I asked him how he knew my son's name. He explained that he knew us on the account of our encounter with the revolutionary guards the previous day.

I was taken aback and asked him if he was a revolutionary guard himself, to which he answered yes. He went on to say that as revolutionary guards, they were on constant look out for those who broke the law. They were particularly, watchful of tourists and visitors to the city. It was at that point that we decided to head back to Tehran as soon as we got back to the hotel. That land no longer felt like our country. A country where rights and freedoms were non-existent and no one was safe and secure anywhere, anymore. At the end of his ten-day leave, Ali returned to his base in Kerman. Although it was harder to let him go for the second time, our hands were tied. We had to allow him to return, or else he could have got arrested and executed for desertion. Life was nothing but a nightmare for all of us. My husband was, of late, complaining about chest pains, and I myself was in no better physical condition.

At last, came the day we feared the most. Ali called and informed us that he was assigned to the elite parachute troops stationed in the city of Shiraz. Once at the base in Shiraz, he called again to let us know that, as before, he would be given a ten-day leave after forty days of service. Considering that he was now involved in fighting the war, forty days of waiting seemed like a lifetime. After his phone call, I decided once again to go to Shiraz to hopefully see my son. Out of concern for my safety, my family asked me to reconsider. But, I had made up my mind and I was going. As far as I was concerned, I could not go on without seeing him. So, I went ahead and bought my ticket. I also sent a telegram to my son to let him know I was coming and to give him my date of arrival. He called me when he got my telegram. He was happy about the news, and assured me that since the war had not reached the city of Shiraz yet, there was nothing to worry about. Everything was packed and I was ready to leave for Shiraz in the morning.

The evening before my trip, as I was setting the table for dinner, the phone rang. Since we were not expecting any calls at that time of the evening, my heart started to pound and I began to panic. At first I could hear my daughter's voice as she answered the phone, but I noticed that she gradually lowered her voice to the point that I could no longer hear a word of what she was saying. I rushed to the living room, where the phone was, and asked my daughter why she was whispering on the phone. She stood there frozen with a pale look on her face. My head was racing; had anything happened to my mother, my father, my uncle, or my husband's brother? I put my hand on my daughter's shoulder and said, "Tell me what happened!" She slowly put the phone down, turned to me, and said, "Mom, it was Ali's friend from Shiraz."

It felt like the roof caved in on me. Why in the world would my son's friend call from Shiraz to give us a message?

My daughter continued relaying the rest of the message. She said Ali wanted to send his love and to tell you not come to Shiraz since his squad was being sent to the front-line in Sumar, an area in the middle of the desert and located in south-western Iran.

We were now ruined. I could not breathe and it seemed that the world had come to an end. My husband, my children, and I sat in the living-room without being able to find words to comfort one another. We looked silently at each other and cried. It was my husband who finally broke the silence and said, "What can we do now?" No one had an answer. What was done was done, and he was now about to face Saddam's brutish soldiers face to face. It is said that in war, one has to kill or be killed, but Saddam's soldiers exhibited more brutality than necessary. They used to, for instance, behead Iranian soldiers, or strangle them with piano strings. In one attack, Iraq ran electricity in the water outside Marjan Island and killed 50,000 of Iranian soldiers at one go.

Nonetheless, life seemed to get more and more miserable for me and my family with each passing day, and there was nothing we could do about it. My father became seriously ill, and the doctors warned that he might not recover from the illness that had been caused by depression. My uncle suffered a heart attack and was hospitalized. A few of our distant cousins' sons had either been killed or disabled in war. I wondered if there would ever be an end to all the misery we were faced with.

Ali came home on his first leave after being deployed. He had lost weight and he looked tanned. When he came in the house, we all ran to the door to give him a hug. I was crying when I hugged him, which to him was a bit strange. According to him, I should have been rather happy that he was still alive and could be home with us for ten days. He was calm, cool, and collected. He spoke slowly and thought carefully about what he was going to say before he would say it. He did not act like himself. He had changed; he was not the same person he was five months earlier. A person who used to be full of energy and full of life was, now, silent and withdrawn. There were also subtle changes in his attitude that struck us as odd. To him, we had nothing to complain about in Tehran which was a paradise in comparison to war-torn cities and towns. He was also critical of us living in the lap of luxury. All and all, something was amiss and I needed to find out from him what was going on.

### Ali's experience of the war at a glance

After much probing, Ali opened up and told me about the first evening he stood guard. He described that night as having been bright because of the moon light. For a while, it had been dead quiet, but quite scary, as one could never tell what were to happen next. There had been constant worries about commando attacks. They were particularly nervous about a group of thirteen Iraqi soldiers who used to sneak up on Iranian soldiers and cut their heads off. Ali said that he had gone through a lot, and this was just the beginning. He had been exposed to death and destruction day in and day out. According to him, to see dead and wounded had become a norm in the frontlines; something that was clearly hard for him to accept. He wondered how much more bloodshed, dead corpses, and maimed soldiers he could handle seeing. Their only contact with civilized world was through the correspondence from back home. At times, however, they had no time to even sit and write back. And after a while, they had no desire to write anymore since there was no fun in doing so. With time, it seemed they had been further removed from any sense of normalcy.

He talked how scarce and awful the food was in the frontline, and how dirty the water was that they had to drink. The food they were given were old canned food from the Second World War, a bit of rice, and tomato paste. If they ever got meat, they had no idea what kind of meat it was. At times, many had become ill consuming the food that had been contaminated by rats and other rodents. The revolutionary guards or Khomeini's militia were the only ones who were given proper, nutritious, and healthy food.

Ali also talked about the people who were barely getting by in the war-torn villages or towns. He explained that their situation was just as dire as that of the soldiers. Their villages were levelled to the ground. They had no potable water. They were starving to death. There were no clinics and there was no medical care. There was no fuel for their cars and no oil to heat their homes.

I was heartbroken by everything I heard. I felt extremely angry and flabbergasted at the ravages of a meaningless war, and the nonchalant attitude of those responsible for the outbreak of war.

Early next morning, Ali went out to see the town, the shops, the people and school children. He wanted to be reminded of the old days when life was normal. He surely missed everything he used to have, his friends, money, cars, motorcycles, and more. There was no sense of belonging anywhere for him anymore. He was lost.

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### The desertion from war, 1984

I was mostly preoccupied with Ali's situation especially since Iran was going to launch a massive operation against Iraq. The news about Iran's plan to attack Iraq was what everyone talked about all the time. According to the slogans of the day, Iran's army was heading to Karbala to free the city from Saddam. With the country worried about the rapid escalation of war, I went about with the preparation for my son's visit. Ali was coming home on leave again, but I had no idea of the exact date of his arrival.

I was invited to my best friend's home, whose family had got the worst of the Islamic regime. Two of her sisters along with their husbands and children were arrested on the suspicion of being the Mujahedeen's supporters. They were all imprisoned and tortured, and while one of her brother-in-laws was executed, the rest of them were released under strict conditions. Anyway, as soon as they were out of prison, they had contacted a smuggler to help them escape from Iran. A week later, they had fled the country and were out of harm's way. To celebrate their safe departure, my friend had invited her family and friends over to her place.

Once there, I got to sit next to one of my friend's sisters, whose only son had been sent out of the country as well due to his set of circumstances. We started talking and half-way through the conversation, she suddenly asked me if I had ever thought about sending my son out of the country. She then went on to say that if I ever decided to do that, she could put me in touch with the smuggler who had helped her.

I did not really know how to answer her. I thought to myself that no matter what, I cannot take too much time to make up my mind. I knew fully well that time was of essence, and I could not afford wasting the precious time. Otherwise, I was sure to regret it for the rest of my life. Therefore, I promised her that I would contact her as soon as Ali was home. A light of hope began to shine in my heart. Between tears and laughter, I left my friend's house, and drove home with so many scattered thoughts running through my head.

Before going in the house, I sat in the car thinking about what I should do. I could not cope with him going back to that hellish war. If anyone wanted to end up in paradise by dying in war, let it be Khomeini's die-hard militia and guards and not my son. There was no way I could let him return to the frontline in the middle of a desert, no, not this time. He had to leave the country. The blood rushed to my head; it was now or never, I could not let the opportunity pass.

While deep in my thoughts, my son Reza approached the car, reading me a poem by the great poet Hafiz to the tune of, "Not to worry, the lost Joseph was going to return home." I asked him what he meant by that.

He said, "Mom, be happy, Ali's home now!"

"Is it true? Where is he now?," I asked.

"He's just coming out of the shower," Reza replied happily. I ran into the house and immediately called my friend. I told her that Ali had come home, and I needed to speak with her sister if she was still there. Once I got the word that she was there, I took Ali with me and headed over to my friend's house. On the way there, I told Ali about the discussion I had earlier with my friend's sister. He seemed perplexed but attentive. That was a welcome change in him as he was forever against such ideas in the past. He used to maintain that he could finish his military service, and thus there was no need to escape. But now that he had lived the horror of war and had seen death from close up, he seemed to be more receptive to the idea.

At my friend's home, we went briefly over a few things. My friend's sister promised to get in touch with the smuggler, and arrange a meeting with him before Ali's ten-day leave was over. In the interim, Ali's squad had completed their move to Marjan Island in preparation for the massive offensive operation. Marjan Island was a very dangerous area, where Saddam's military had managed to kill an estimated 50,000 Iranian soldiers previously. That was a major reason for much anxiety amongst all concerned with regard to the outcome of that military operation. Ali must have been worried a lot, or else he would have never accepted my proposal.

The morning after, I got a message to expect company that very day. I was tense since we had to be overly secretive about the whole thing, or risk dire consequences. A young man in his thirties showed up at our place. He introduced himself as Solomon. He was an educated and decent man of Kurdish background. We went over the procedure and the fee. Given that two more of my sons would also require his assistance in very near future, he lowered his price from 150,000 to 100,000 toman (Iranian currency) to send Ali to Turkey, which I accepted without hesitation. He advised Ali not to bring a large suitcase, money, gold, Persian carpets, and any other valuables with him. All he was to have on him were a few clothing items, toiletry, and his leave pass from the military and absolutely no other documents. He wanted me to take Ali to the border of Iran and Turkey, drop him off there and leave. He also suggested that on our trip, I should dress in a way so as to avoid drawing attention to us. Last thing he mentioned was to have a third person come along with us on the trip, someone who was not of any relation to us.

After much thought, we chose a very trustworthy and close friend of Ali. He was also a soldier and he was home on leave as well. Ali immediately called him and asked him to come over without mentioning anything else. Solomon wanted to meet the individual before we shared our secret with him. After a brief chat with Ali's friend, Soloman gave us his word of approval to go ahead and tell him. Now, the decision rested solely with Ali's friend. We were not going to influence his decision in any shape and form since this was a dangerous undertaking on many levels. After a long pause and much to our relief, Ali's friend accepted to accompany us on our trip. Everything was now in place to carry out the plan. This was my last desperate attempt to save my son from death. Although the risk was great, and the consequence of getting caught was execution, I had to get my son to safety and freedom.

### Ali's escape to an unknown fate

No one in our family knew anything about our plan. They all thought that Ali was simply returning to the frontline, and they were all sad about it. Despite feeling bad for them, I could not jeopardize our mission.

It was almost sunset when we sat on the bus to Tabriz. Ali sat next to me, while his friend sat in the aisle seat at the other side along the same row. He had to pretend that he was not with us and he did not know us. We were all scared, but we had to control ourselves. We had thirteen hours of bus ride ahead of us. On our way, we passed numerous checkpoints in small and large villages, which was quite intimidating. By dawn, we arrived at the most dangerous and most closely watched area, the Khoi intersection. At this checkpoint, every single vehicle particularly, buses were stopped by the revolutionary guards and, carefully, inspected to catch anyone trying to escape from Iran. Located in the province of Azerbaijan, Khoi is a city at the border of Iran and Turkey, where hundreds of those who intended to flee the country were arrested. No one knew what became of them as they simply vanished in thin air.

The bus was pulled over at Khoi checkpoint at five o'clock in the morning. It was almost dark and the passengers were rather sleepy. The guards got on the bus to inspect the passengers. We three were fully alert, but we pretended to be asleep. I could hear my heart pounding hard in my chest. I was wearing the very traditional chador that is, a black veil that covers the entire body. Underneath it, I was wearing a long coat, long pants, black and thick socks, black gloves, and a headscarf.

I am dressed in the traditional veil (chador)

I had already covered my face with my chador, which gave the impression that I was sleeping. Likewise my friend's son, who had a beard and wore a jacket that was similar to the ones revolutionary guards used to wear, pretended to be asleep also. I could see from under the chador when the guards got on the bus with their rifles aimed at passengers. They stopped at each row and examined the passengers' facial expressions and their reactions for any signs of stress or nervousness. I was leaning back in my seat, trying hard to remain quiet and motionless. We could hear how they grabbed two teenagers, who were sitting in the back of the bus, and took them out. No one dared turn around or look to see where the kids were being taken to. We were on pins and needles until the guards left the bus and let us drive away. I thought I was going to explode. The closer we got to our set meeting place, the faster my heart beat became. An hour later, we finally reached the designated meeting place.

According to the plan, Ali was the only one to get off the bus. He walked slowly toward the door without looking back. I watched quietly as he walked away. Tears were running down my cheeks beneath the veil. I would have wanted to scream. I would have wanted to tell him not to leave without a word, without saying goodbye or see you later. But I had to somehow control my emotions, or else, we would have been exposed. I only saw Solomon standing in the far distance waiting to meet Ali. He waved as the bus began to drive away heading to its next stop, a small tea-house on the road. It was there we were supposed to meet Solomon. Solomon walked in the tea-house with Ali. It was then that Ali could say goodbye to his mother and his very loyal friend, who had risked his life for Ali's sake. Solomon wanted us to head back to Tehran on the very same day. But we thought it would be disastrous if we run into the same guards who were at that last checkpoint. Surely, they would become suspicious to see us heading back already and only within a few hours. We also could not stay in a hotel anywhere. I would have aroused suspicion if I wanted to rent a room on my own. Also, we could not get a room together since we were not related. Running out of options, my son's friend suggested contacting an army friend of his who was from around that area, and he also happened to be on leave at the time. He believed that his army body could perhaps put us up for the night for a fee.

When the time came for Ali to leave with Solomon, I wanted to cry and scream, but I had to keep my composure. Solomon promised me to take care of my son as best he could. He also promised to let me know the minute, Ali had crossed the border. As for the rest of the journey to Istanbul, he had no control over that since that part was handled by others who worked with him. In reality, the sum of money that was paid to Solomon was not just for him, but also those who worked with him to see Ali through different parts of his long journey from Iran to Istanbul.

While the majority of smugglers helped saved many lives, there were unfortunately some who were dishonest and unreliable. There were cases where people were robbed of everything they had, and subsequently abandoned half-way through their journey. Some died of hypothermia, starvation, or dehydration. Few others were killed by wild animals. I was sure lucky to have had found Solomon who was a man of his word.

We were greeted and taken in by the family of the soldier who knew my son's friend. I could not believe that no matter how much we insisted, they would not take any money from us not even for food. We got on a bus and headed back to Tehran the next day. I was on my way home, but my problems were far from over.

After ten long and agonizing days and many sleepless nights, I got the word that Ali was in Turkey, but not in Istanbul rather in the city of Van.

Van is a historic city located not too far from Iran. I myself visited the city in 1980 on my first bus trip as a tourist to Turkey. And now, three years later my son was there, but under an entirely different set of circumstances. The worry was that the Turkish police officers there were notorious for deporting Iranian fugitives back to Iran for the monetary rewards. I felt a bit more relieved when Ali called me himself and told me he was safe. His fate, however, rested now with the Turkish police who had to allow him to travel further to Istanbul. It took one month before he was given permission to go to Istanbul.

### Military officials at our doorstep

A buzz came through the intercom. As soon as we answered, someone shouted out loud, "Open the door, we are looking for Ali!" This was the inevitable visit that was bound to be conducted sooner or later. Terrified, my children hid behind the bed. With trembling knees, I went to the door. There stood a few soldiers with their commander, a tall captain. The captain introduced himself and asked for Ali's parents!

I said, "I'm his mother. Has something happened to my son? Is he injured or . . .?" Then, I burst into tears! He asked me straight where Ali was, and whether he was hiding at home or at some other place. I started shaking like a leaf while crying. He felt sorry for me and said, "Sister, do not worry! But Ali is absent without leave. That is why we are here and want to know where he is now. Do you know anything about his hideout?" I had no choice but to continue with the charade and look worried sick when I clearly was not. With shaky voice, I said that my whole family was there when he got on the train, and I myself had not heard from him.

He said, "Listen to me,...' and then he took out a bunch of paper, which he pointed to while telling me that it was not just my son who had deserted the army. According to him, many from the rank of private to colonel had gone missing. In the next breath, he told me to be honest; confess that my son was one of those on the run, and tell them about his whereabouts.

At that point, I became hysteric, and while showing them Ali's picture that was taken in Kerman, I told him that I did not care how many people had deserted. I went on to say that my son volunteered for service and there was no reason for him to escape. I then, pleaded with him to tell me where he was. I asked whether he was killed or injured, and I begged for my son to be returned to me safe and sound. Needless to say that he was no fool as he dismissed my tears and my pleas. He looked me straight in the eye and told me that if I did not tell him the truth, he would have me arrested.

I had tried my best and there was nothing I could do if he wanted to arrest me. All I could say in response was that I had no knowledge where Ali was. Before leaving , he told me, in no uncertain terms, that if Ali was found, he would be court-martialled and executed. I was mortified by the whole encounter, which made me even more determined not to share the truth about Ali with anyone, not even family members who were constantly asking about him. I had too many things to worry about like my other children's future, Ali's safety in Turkey, the fear of Ali getting arrested by Turkish police and being sent back to Iran, and so forth.

Since we were left alone by the military officials for a while, I thought they had forgotten about my son. To my dismay, it turned out that they had not forgotten. We got a visit from the military officials for the second time. This time, they had also brought a rude and ignorant revolutionary guard with them. The revolutionary guard had no qualm to use force if needed, and, at one point, he nearly aimed his rifle at me while threatening me to tell the truth or else. He kept asking, "Where is your cowardly son? Where are you hiding him?" He grabbed my arm, shook me hard, and said, "If you do not open your mouth, I will take you to the station. Perhaps a few lashes will get you to open up your filthy mouth!" Deep down, I asked God for help, and for more strength not to be broken under pressure. I was physically sick, and now I was about to become mentally ill too due to all the stress. Nonetheless, I continued denying knowledge of Ali's whereabouts, and I kept insisting to be worried about him all the time. There was actually some truth to what I said since I was worried that Ali did not have as much money or clothes with him, and he was only in transit in Turkey. As the badgering went on, I kept feeling more and more light headed until I fainted.

When I opened my eyes, I saw our neighbour who was a doctor leaning over me. I heard him asking me if I was awake and if I could hear him. I turned slowly and saw my poor children watching me intently. My husband was also sitting down with his hands on his head, with a hopeless look on his face. There was no sign of the military officials or the revolutionary guard. Before I could ask anything, I was given an injection by the doctor and fell sleep.

### I suffered from cancer, 1984

After being visited by the military officials for a second time, I did not dare to call my son from home. Instead I used to go to a very close friend of mine and call him from her house. She was a great friend who was a bit older than me. We had come to know each other when we both studied at the adult high-school. She worked for a state insurance company and came from a well-known and rich family. She had gone through a lot in her own life with the most tragic one being the death of one of her sons, which had left her with feelings of depression. At the time, she lived with her young fifteen-years-old son, who she needed to get out of the country as well.

At any rate, it was thanks to the kindness of this great friend of mine that I could be in touch with my son in Turkey. In the last conversation I had with Ali, he assured me that he would soon get permission from the Turkish police to move from Van to Istanbul. I promised to travel to Turkey to meet with him as soon as he got there. I planned to take my young, eleven-year-old son, Iraj, with me to Turkey. My plan was to leave him with Ali in Turkey so that they could travel to a safe country together. While busy packing suitcases for the trip, I got massive pain and heavy bleeding, and I had no choice but to visit a gynaecologist.

At the doctor's office, I was getting awfully impatient with his inattentiveness and negligence. He did not find it necessary to send me for further tests. Rather, he believed that my condition had to do with excess stress, and his advice was to take it easy and relax. Since there has never been any public health care coverage in Iran, I could not understand his vehement refusal to send me for further examinations. After all, I would have been the one paying for the tests and not the public. At the end, I did get a requisition to get further tests done. A week later, I got two unrelated news simultaneously. One was happy news that my son had made it safely to Istanbul. The other one, however, was the devastating result of my laboratory tests. I immediately called my doctor and got an urgent appointment with him. When he read the lab report, he did not look into my eyes. I broke the long silence and asked him, "So am I dying, or am I just imagining that?" He looked up and said, "I am really sorry, but you have cervical cancer and need a total hysterectomy."

I sat quietly for a moment before I got up, reached over, and asked for the lab report back. He looked at me perplexed and asked why. I told him that it was my result and I just wanted it back. He insisted that he needed to keep it in my file for the operation. I responded, "Fine, I just want to look at it once more!" He handed the paper back to me. With the report in my hand, I looked him straight in the eye and told him that I did not trust an uncompassionate doctor to perform surgery on me. I told him that I found it disgusting that despite so much pain and bleeding, he would think that I was just looking for attention and that I was imagining my illness. I then, turned around and left his office.

Solomon called all the time and asked how my son was doing in Turkey. He wanted to ensure that Ali was looked after properly by those Solomon had entrusted with carrying out such undertakings. I told him everything was fine, and Ali had reached Istanbul. However, I told him that I was sick and could not go there as early as I had planned. So I asked him if he had anyone there who could give money to my son, which I could re-pay to Solomon at this end. He promised to take care of that for me, and asked me to just focus on getting better. He did deliver on his promise and the next day, he came and got the money he had paid out to Ali. He was truly a godsend. With one issue resolved, I had to get on with a second one namely, finding a doctor for myself. I contacted the same friend I used to go to for contacting Ali, told her about my health problem, and asked if she knew someone. She put me in touch with a great doctor called Dr. Davodi, who sent me for a biopsy.

A few days later, the doctor called and wanted to see me the same day. I was extremely nervous about the test results. Once I got there, he wanted to first talk to my daughter who had come with me to that appointment. I told him that whatever it was, it was me he should be talking to and not my child. According to him, I had cancer and I needed to have a surgery immediately. I hesitated and then asked if the surgery could be postponed so I could go on a trip. He looked at me dumbfounded and said, "Your health should be more important than taking a vacation at this time." I appreciated where he was coming from since he was not privy to the nature of my trip. All out of options, I, therefore, found it necessary to tell him the reason behind my travel. He felt really bad for me, and, in a sympathetic manner, he told me that unfortunately, there was great sense of urgency in performing the surgery immediately. He went further to say that I could surely go after the surgery, but not to have the operation at that point was a risk he was not prepared to take. Frightened, I cried out, "What do you mean by immediately?" He replied back, "I mean tomorrow." I asked him to push the surgery back by at least one day so that I can make arrangements and ask my mother to come and look after my children.

Two days later, I checked into a private hospital first thing in the morning. They took me to my room. In the afternoon, my family and friends came to visit to wish me luck. I was wheeled away to the operating room. The last thing I saw before going to the operating room was their tearful eyes. Although it was not the first time I had ended up in such a place, it was still painful for them to see me there. Despite being fearful for my life and the lives of my children who were dependant on me, I tried to joke with the staff and get my mind off unpleasant thoughts. As soon as my surgeon walked in, I asked him how he would make the cut on my stomach, whether it would be a horizontal or a vertical cut. He smiled understandingly and told me not to worry. The last thing I remember before I was put under was Dr. Davodi telling me with a friendly smile, "Good night my friend, sleep well, and see you tomorrow."

The operation went well and I was rolled back into my room after coming to. My family and friends had stayed there all day until I was out of the surgery and back to the ward. It was great for me to see everyone again especially, my children. My family came to visit every day for the eight days that I was at the hospital. On July 15th, they came with cake, flowers and gifts to celebrate my birthday at the hospital. I was on the way to recovery. According to the doctor, my ovaries were also taken out so as to prevent future complications.

The sense of relief that came with the news of a successful surgery was not to last long. I was informed by my daughter that the military officials had dropped by our house again looking for Ali. My daughter had again reiterated that we had no knowledge of his whereabouts. She had also told them that I was at hospital. Apparently, they had planned on coming over to ask me questions when my daughter had pleaded with them to leave me alone in the hospital. She had told them that I would contact them once I was discharged from the hospital.

The night before my discharge, I was wide awake contemplating what to do about the constant harassment of the military authorities. One thing I was sure of was that, somehow, I had to put a stop to that nonsense. On the morning of the eighth day, after a thorough medical examination, I was discharged from the hospital. I had suggested that only my daughter come to pick me up from the hospital. When I got in the car, I told my daughter to drive to the nearest military base. My daughter was stunned and asked why. Still weak from the surgery, I told her to just drive. When we arrived at the base, we were stopped by the guard at the gate. He asked us about our business there. I told him I was looking for the commanding officer. He asked if we had made any appointments to see him. I replied back that we had to see him since my son was missing. He went to make a phone call and came back asking us for our names, address, my son's name and rank, and the last known place-of-duty of my son. After what to me—a person in my condition—seemed like forever, he came out and ordered us to park the car. He then showed us the building where the adjutant's office was. In pain and with much discomfort, I walked into the building and stepped into the adjutant's office. He asked me what it was I wanted to see him about. Between tears, I told him I wanted to know about my son's fate! I wanted to know what had happened to him, and why his people kept coming to my home looking for him. I went further to say that I wanted to know the truth, and that I was not leaving until I got a straight answer. Quite sympathetic about my physical condition, he tried to console me by telling me not to worry as they would do everything in their power to locate him. Then he suggested I go home and try to rest and get better. He gave me his word that they would contact me the minute they had an answer.

I, however, had no intention of leaving before I was confident that they would not come knocking at my door ever again. With that in mind then, I said, "No." I said I would sit there until I found out exactly what had happened to my son. At that point, the adjutant whispered something in his colleague's ear and left the room. Moments later, he returned in the company of a colonel. The colonel greeted me politely. Speaking softly, he asked me to be truthful and tell them what I knew about my son's whereabouts. While apologetic for questioning me under my poor health conditions, he stated that he was duty bound to do so. Trying to keep a straight face, I told him the same story I had told those before him. However this time, I demanded to be provided with a written confirmation from the military to the effect that my son was missing in war. I also requested not to be visited by the military officials ever again. In a pleasant turn of events, he tried to accommodate me. As such, he ordered his officers to make a few phone calls to see if they could find any information about my son. Once they turned up empty handed, with much regret, I was given an official letter to the effect that my son was missing in action and escorted back to my car.

Now I could get on with the next pressing matter namely, visiting my son in Turkey. Concerned for his wellbeing in that country, time was off essence and I had to get there as soon as I could. Still quite frail and lethargic, I headed to the airport with my youngest son. The airport was packed, and there were long line ups everywhere. People's luggage were randomly opened and checked, which also happened in my case. After taking my luggage apart for inspection, it was time for passport control. According to the standard procedure, travelers had to submit their passports to the ministry of foreign affairs for verification three days prior to their trip. The passports were then returned to the passengers on the day of their travel at the airport. So I had to wait my turn to pick up my passport before heading over for body search. That was a humiliating experience since one had to, practically, stand there naked while being thoroughly—and I mean thoroughly—searched by either male or female officers depending on one's gender. In any case, I came out of one inspection room and my young son from another. When we were seated on the plane, I remember my son burst into tears and told me he was totally undressed for the body search. I comforted him by saying that it was okay, that everybody got the same treatment. He was very upset, but I told him we should not say anything more since there were guards on the plane who could give us grief.

Five hours later and we landed in Istanbul at last. Not even out of the airport yet, Iranian women were frantically taking off their headscarves and long coats. At any rate, after three months of longing, I was finally reunited with my son Ali. Not knowing anything about my surgery, he was shocked to see me in the state I was, weak and enervated. He said I looked sick. Excited to see him, I told him let's not talk about that at the airport.

At the hotel, we talked for hours about everything that had transpired since his departure. He was saddened by the whole ordeal particularly, my illness. But at the same time, he was thankful that I survived cancer, and glad that I was there with him.

### Ali's account of his journey to Turkey

Ali explained how it went for him from the time we parted in that small tea-house in that little village to when we reunited in Istanbul. First, they had got on a van and gone to another village. On the way, Solomon had collected all his documents and money as a part of the procedure. At the next village, they had got on horses and rode through mountainous roads to yet another village. In the afternoon, they had arrived at a Kurdish village near the border. No sooner had they arrived, when they had realized that the revolutionary guards were there, searching every house, which had forced them to go into hiding for a while. Once the coast had been clear, they had continued their escape toward the border. At the border, he had been joined by a few others who were waiting to cross the border as well. Solomon had given him a bag and a bundle of money, the latter of which he had hid in his pocket. As of that point, they had been handed over to Solomon's partners. Ali had thanked Solomon and had said goodbye to him. They had got on horses and had ridden away. Solomon's partners had taken the bag from Ali, without him knowing or caring about what that contained. The only thing he had been concerned about had been to get to the first border city of Van, which had been still quite a way from where they were.

As the darkness had fallen, so had the fears of riding through the mountains. But they had to keep to the plan of hiding during daytime and riding at night time. The rise and fall of the temperature along the way and the ups and downs of the mountain roads had been harsh and treacherous. After quite a long distance of hiking and horseback riding, they had come across a stall, where they had been told to stop and wait. Ali did not know how long they had waited there for them since he had fallen asleep standing up.

Upon their return, the group had been taken to a few houses in the village, where they had been fed and had been given a place to sleep. Out of exhaustion, they had passed out for an entire day. By evening, they had been back on the road again. Riding along on the horses, they had suddenly noticed two men sitting by a fire not too far down the road. Although scared that those men might be armed and might attack them, Ali and the group had absolutely no choice but to follow the instructions and get off the horses. Due to the existence of drug-traffickers, criminals, smugglers and alike, that area is exceptionally dangerous. As luck would have it, they had managed to carry on without any incident. Once they had reached the highway, they had been once again handed over to a new team at which point, Ali's bag had also been returned to him. From there, they had traveled in a car and arrived at the city of Van early next morning.

There, they had checked into a hotel. After resting for an hour, they had got changed, grabbed their belongings and headed to the police station. The police had been very rude and offensive toward them, but they had been lucky not to get assaulted by them. They had then, been taken to a hotel which had been set up for the purposes of housing the Iranian refugees. According to Ali, there had been at least twenty other Iranian refugees in his age group who stayed at that hotel. Ali had stayed in that hotel for a month before he got to go to Istanbul.

On the day they had traveled to Istanbul, Ali had got massive abdominal pain due to kidney stones. The trip had taken a few hours, and they had been checked into a shabby hotel somewhere in southern Istanbul.

I asked Ali if he had decided to which country he would go, but he was not sure. I had originally planned to stay in Turkey for a month, but I was forced to go back to Iran, on bus, after only a week. I had to go back to transfer $ 2,500 to a smuggler called Naim in Turkey in order to arrange Ali's escape to another country as a refugee. The purpose of having my little son, Iraj, with me was that he would follow his oldest brother to a safe country until I send my other sons Reza and Madjid out of the country. But according to Naim, it would have been difficult for my younger son to follow Ali on the same trip in case he was deported. He advised that Ali should go first and once settled, then my other sons should follow.

1984, Istanbul with Ali and Iraj

I came to the bus terminal which was full of passengers especially Iranians, some of which were also parents like me who had come to visit their children. We got on our way back to Iran. I was still quite weak and in tremendous pain, and I had to now sit uncomfortably on a bus for three days. It was at sunset when the bus reached the Turkish Customs. We had to carry all of our luggages through customs, go through passport control, and stand in long queues to get a stamp in our passport. Then, we had to pass through the long, dark, and dirty corridors to get to the Iranian Customs, which was even worse. Exhausted people were kept for hours in long queues only to be harassed and mistreated at the hands of rude, ignorant customs officers. There was an absolute pandemonium and people were getting on each other's nerve. Suddenly, a shot was fired in the air; it was the revolutionary guards' way to try to bring some order into the chaos by creating fear in the crowd.

In any event, once the madness was over, we took our luggage and headed for our bus to get to Tehran. To our horror, we were told the border, which was surrounded by high mountains, was closed and no bus could leave. We did not even get a chance to find out why! It was not long before we could ask for the reason, that we heard shootings from a distance. Everyone started to panic while looking around frantically to find a safe place to hide. Guards closed the doors to the building, and no one was even allowed to use the bathrooms. Iraj and I sat in a corner. He wept while I tried to put on a brave face and comfort my little son. He laid his head on my weary knees and fell asleep while gunfire echoed in the surrounding hills. At dawn, calmness returned and we were allowed to carry on. Later, we found out that the clash was between Khomeini's revolutionary guards and the Iranian-Kurds. An unjust war that is still going on after 32 years, but not as intensely as it used to in the past.

Nevertheless, I was heading back to Tehran to send money to Turkey as fast as I could to get Ali to a safe country. After Ali's escape to Turkey, I had often wondered in what country he would end up. I had heard great things about Sweden as many Iranians had taken refuge in that country. But since I had always wanted to live in the United States, and we had lost the opportunity to immigrate there when we had the chance, now I wanted to send my son there.

To my dismay, however, Ali informed me that despite months of trying through various channels including the United Nations, he could not go to the United States. In our last conversation, he told me that he would seek asylum in Norway! I asked him why Norway, a country that is cold and dark half the year! I asked him to reconsider since to live in a dark, cold and landlocked country would be very depressing. A few days later he told me that he would go to Sweden, otherwise he would return to Iran!

I wondered how he had come about choosing Sweden. He told me that he had heard nothing but good about Sweden, and he also did not want to stay in Turkey any longer. He then explained that they were not safe in Turkey. That the police were constantly harassing them by showing up at the hotel every night and arresting refugees. According to Ali, they had to bribe the police all the time if they did not want to be deported back to Iran. The troublesome living conditions in Turkey compounded by massive idleness had taken their toll on him. He was tired of a mundane life without a job, schooling, family, and worst of all peace of mind and security. He argued that, up to that point, it had been more than five months that he had stayed in Turkey and that he could no longer tolerate being subjected to their hostility. Bottom line, he had enough and he needed to move on. After listening to what he had to say, I appreciated the gravity of his situation. Concerned for his safety and his welfare, I approved of his decision to go to Sweden. He was relieved to have my permission to leave Turkey for Sweden. I gathered as much information as I could about Sweden, which made me confident that he was going to a safe and friendly country. I only hoped that Sweden would in reality live up to its great reputation so that we would not end up in a similar or worse situation as we had in Iran.

A few days after our last conversation, I learned that Ali and his friends Arash and Kamran got to Sweden after traveling through Bulgaria and East Germany. In September 1984, Ali sought asylum in Sweden, and he called us at home from Trelleborg to give us the news. A week later, he was granted refugee status and was transferred to Leksand in Dalarna.

With the stabilization of Ali's situation, I could then move on the next phase of my plan, which was to send my other sons, Reza and Madjid, to Sweden. My aim was to keep the whole family together. I contacted Solomon and left a message that was our secret code. He called me immediately and not too long thereafter, he came to visit. Since I already knew him and had great trust in him, there was no need for any type of negotiations. He advised me of slight changes to the plan in comparison to the first time around in that, I had to drop off my children in Rezaiye (now called Urmia) in western Iran, and I had to have my mother with us on the road. I had reservations about involving my mother in the process especially, since she did not even know about Ali's escape from Iran. Unfortunately however, Solomon insisted that there was no other way due to the fact that the revolutionary guards had become a lot more alert and travelers were subjected to much higher scrutiny than before.

A few days later, I packed a small bag that my children needed on route to Turkey and two hundred thousand toman (which was Solomon's fee to get my two sons out of the country), and gave them to Solomon. I sat reviewing the plan with my sons who were only 18 and 15 years old at the time. Then, I made a visit to my parents and, reluctantly, I told my mother everything. I felt guilty since for all those months that she sat there worrying about my son, I had to keep the truth to myself and watch her suffer. So, it was a bit awkward to come to her all of a sudden, and ask her to tag along on a rather risky mission. She was incredibly happy and relieved when she heard the story of Ali's escape to Sweden. As well, she was equally glad that my sons Reza and Madjid were to leave the country soon. For the safety of all of us including her, I begged my mother not to breathe a word to anyone, not even to my siblings. I was amazed when my mother, who was sixty years old at the time, accepted to join us on our escapade and put herself in harm's way.

### Reza & Madjid's escape, 1984

One afternoon in October, I along with my mother and my three sons, Reza, Madjid, and Iraj, (18, 15, and 11 years old respectively) got on a bus to travel twelve hours to the west of Iran. We passed three checkpoints on route, which I had once passed through with Ali and his friend without any incidents. The experience, however, was frightening for my youngest son, who was shaking like a leaf. I really did not know how I, who also needed comfort, could comfort him. My poor little son; it was, after all, not long ago he had experienced trauma on our way back from Turkey just a few months earlier.

I took a big sigh of relief and thanked God when we stepped off the bus in the city of Rezaiyeh. Next day, we were visited by Solomon at the hotel. He showed up holding the same little bag I had given him in Tehran. Looking distraught, Solomon handed me the bag that contained the 200,000 toman of money and my sons' belongings, and told me to take my sons, go back to Tehran, and wait for further instructions.

I was flabbergasted and asked him what was going on. He told me he was truly sorry I had traveled such a long distance for nothing. He wished he could have reached me in good time prior to my trip to have saved me the trouble. He then turned to my mother and told her to please forgive him for undue stress he had caused her. According to him, the civil war between the regime's militia and the Kurds had escalated and as such, all the mountain roads were heavily controlled. Many Kurds and refugees had either been killed or arrested during military skirmishes. He, therefore, could not carry out the plan at that time due to the extreme volatility of the situation. I refused to take back the bag that had the money and my kids' stuff. I told him to keep the money, that we would go back and wait until he could send my children out of that damn country! He was stunned and asked, "Do you trust me? Have you no worries that I will disappear with your money?" I shook my head and told him how much I trusted him and how much I needed him to help me save my children. We headed back to Tehran that same day.

Days went by without hearing from Solomon. I was already under tremendous amount of stress and now, I had to deal with my mother's constant badgering about how Solomon had ripped us off. It was aggravating to listen to her talk like that; after all, I had trusted Solomon with something much more precious namely, my children's lives so as to now doubt him over something much less significant. Two weeks later, I decided to go to my parents and leave my youngest son there so as to be ready to travel once Solomon called. I did not want to put my youngest son through any more stress.

When I returned from my parents, my daughter told me that my friend had called with an important message from Solomon. The message was for me to take my sons to him in Tabriz at eight o'clock the next morning. In order to make it there at the timing he had mentioned, I had to drive eight hundred kilometres over night. My head was racing just thinking about going through all those checkpoints on the way; a young woman with two young kids traveling at night. Deep in thoughts, my friend called back asking me what I was going to do. I told her that I was going to get in the car and drive all night. She was horrified and said, "You and the kids alone?!" The next thing I knew, she was coming with us. She was adamant that I should have someone with me especially, on the way back after I had dropped off my sons.

Late in the afternoon we headed out of Tehran. She was a lot of fun to be around and great company to all of us during those taxing hours. At one in the morning, when we were half-way to Tabriz, we came to a standstill on the road. There were police and revolutionary guards everywhere. I was scared out of my mind. But I had to find out how long we were going to be stuck in that spot. So somehow, I gathered up courage and asked the question from a police officer who was standing close to my car. It turned out that there was construction work going on inside a tunnel and the road was not to be opened until five in the morning.

I was awfully nervous about not making it to our rendezvous on time. We still had quite a long distance to go, and I still had to find my way to the meeting place once there. Sadly, there was nothing I could do about it; I just had to hope for the best. At about five o'clock in the morning, the road was finally opened. As soon as we passed the checkpoints, I pressed on the accelerator and started to drive like mad. Weary and exhausted, we got to the bus terminal in Tabriz at half past seven. I was not sure if it was crazy or gutsy to have driven four hundred kilometres in a matter of two and a half hour. But all I knew was that I had to do all that I could to save my children's lives.

I ate the last breakfast with my sons across from the bus terminal, and walked slowly into the bus station's cafeteria, waiting for Solomon. My heart started to pound as soon as I saw him walk in. He came forward and sat at our table. After a short conversation with me, he left the cafeteria. As per his instructions, my sons were to wait a few minutes, and then leave without saying goodbye. He was to wait for them at a kiosk across the road. As for us, we were to wait ten minutes after their departure before we left the cafeteria and head back to Tehran immediately. As soon as the children had made it safely across the border, I was to be contacted by Solomon. The children could only contact me themselves once they were in Istanbul. As per the plan, my sons and I parted without saying goodbye. With heavy heart, I watched my sons go. The weight of the world had, once again, been put on my shoulders as I thought of the dangerous journey ahead of them.

My friend and I drove all the way to Tehran in deafening silence and without saying a word. We both had too much to think about, and we were both in a sombre mood. We were afraid of breaking our silence and allow our sorrow to take over; we had to stay alert. In the middle of the night, when I finally parked the car in front of my friend's home and went in, we could not stop crying.

The Islamic regime had devastated my life. I no longer enjoyed a stable and peaceful life. As I stood in the middle of my living room in that huge, empty house, I felt like the world had ended. Three of my sons were away and would never come back. My little son lived with my parents, my husband was not feeling well, and my daughter's future was uncertain. I had suffered from cancer, trauma, and anxiety, and had to take strong tranquilizers to cope, which further impacted my health.

Still ten days after leaving my sons with Solomon in Tabriz, I had not heard anything back. I could hardly eat or sleep. I cried day and night. I was not in the mood to do anything. Life was meaningless. Every time the phone rang, I thought it was Solomon or maybe my children. One day, I went with a friend to a holy place to pray for my children's health and safety and donate money to that effect. There I sat and cried for hours. I had not heard from my children and I was going out of my mind. As we came out of the place, we went to a telephone booth and I called my other friend, who had accompanied me on that trip, hoping that she might have got a phone call from Solomon.

When she heard my voice, she burst into tears and asked me where I had been. She told me she had been trying to get in touch with me for hours and that I needed to go see her as soon as possible. My knees buckled and I froze. My friend who was standing next to me grabbed the phone to find out what had happened. The three of us were best friends and we knew each other for many years. Last thing I could remember was my friend also crying before I fainted in the phone booth. When I came to, I was inside a store and saw my friend's face close to mine. The store owner handed over a glass of water to my friend. She splashed a few drops on my face and forced me to have a few sips of water. As soon as I went to open my mouth, my friend, while winking at me, put her hand on my mouth and said, "Don't talk, you're still dizzy." We thanked the owner and left the store. Then my friend gave me the great news that my children had safely got to Istanbul and at the time, they were staying with Said who was a good friend of my older son Ali. Said was the same age as Ali and they used to be old classmates. When Ali fled Iran and went to Istanbul, he ran into Said at the same hotel he was staying. Said stayed in Istanbul for about a year until he got a visa through the United Nations to go to the United States and join his sister.

I had met Said in Istanbul when I went to visit Ali. When my two other sons were on their way to Istanbul, I had called him and asked him to look after my children until I could come. A great and kind young man that he was, he promised to do so and he remained true to his words, for which I am eternally grateful. When my children had called him at the bus terminal in Istanbul, Said had come and taken them to the hotel. He had then, called my friend with the news about my children. I was extremely joyful, and since I had the hotel's phone number, I rushed to a telephone house and placed a call to Turkey. I was thrilled to hear my sons' voices and to know that they were safe. They also gave me a message for Solomon. My son Reza wanted me to tell Solomon that they had paid 400,000 Turkish lira to the bus driver. I told him that it did not matter, but my son emphasized that it was important for Solomon to know.

Solomon got upset when he heard about the incident. He immediately reimbursed me the amount of money that my kids had been unduly charged by his Turkish counterparts. He also apologized for any inconveniences and discomfort that this may have caused my kids. He was going to deal with his partners and put a stop to such behaviours since, as he put it, it was his credibility that was at stake.

With my children in Turkey, the next step was to bring them some money and clothing. My best friend and another mutual friend were planning to go to Turkey to apply for a U.S. visa. In the aftermath of the unfortunate swarming of the United States' embassy in Tehran and the lunacy of hostage-taking incident, Iranians who needed to get a visa for the United States had to go to another country such as, Turkey to submit their applications. Since the dates of their trip happened to coincide with mine, my best friend suggested that we take the bus and go to Istanbul together. I was not too keen on traveling by bus since it was too cumbersome for me; as well, I was in rush to get there as fast as I could so a plane ride made more sense. However, at the end, she managed to talk me into it, something which I ended up regretting later on.

At three o'clock in the afternoon, the three of us got on the bus making our way toward the Bazargan border in the city of Jolfa. After fourteen hours of travel, we arrived at the border. According to the then standard procedures, passengers had to stay put in the bus while the bus driver would go to the Customs office with their passports. Sometime later, the bus driver returned with a stack of passports and a list of names. He started reading the names off the list and my name happened to be included. He then asked those whose names had been on the list to leave the bus since they were not allowed to leave the country. I was petrified and I thought to myself, what in the world was going on?! It was not just the group from our bus rather, people from fifty other passenger buses who were in the same boat. As a large group, we all marched to the Customs office fuming. The revolutionary guards were quick to aim their guns at us and threaten to shoot us if we did not leave the premises. But we all wanted an explanation as to why we were banned from traveling. A supervisor at the Customs office claimed that as a result of a brand new policy, those who had recently been out of the country had to wait four months before they could travel abroad again. People became irate complaining that no one told them about this new policy at the travel agency, nor had they heard about this on the news before. The supervisor responded that all authorities had been given the right to make independent decisions, which was what the authorities at that Customs office had relied on to devise and implement that new policy at their own office and only as recently as the previous night. Once he finished with his nonsense explanation, out of the blue, he turned around to me and a few others and told us to wait at his office. Naively, we thought that perhaps we were going to be granted permission to leave the country.

We were kept standing at the door before he showed up with few revolutionary guards. He was a short and heavy man with a thick beard, yellow teeth, small red eyes, black lips which were an indication of his opium addiction, dressed in a dirty, ugly outfit. He looked menacingly and mockingly at us while he sat behind his desk. One of the revolutionary guards asked him what he was going to do with us. He replied that he was going to contact the central office to get orders as to whether send us to the Committee for interrogation or directly to jail! I was scared out of my mind and I passed out right in the middle of the hallway. When I opened my eyes, a female revolutionary guard was staring at me. She asked me stonily why I had fainted, and whether I had something to hide that had made me lose consciousness. I firmly replied that I had nothing to be afraid of rather, I was hungry, thirsty, and tired. She helped me up and gave me water in a dirty glass that had tons of fingerprints on it. I could not refuse drinking the water as it would have been taken as an insult and could have got me into more trouble. After a long time, he took people in one by one, made everyone pay a fine on some sort of made up charges, and told them they were forbidden from traveling overseas. When it came to my turn, I was charged with wearing makeup, which was not true as I was pale in the face. I argued that I had no makeup and if one were to wipe my face with a cloth, one could see that I did not have any makeup on. He got furious, jumped up from his chair like a rocket, came up to me and started choking me. The guards tried to intervene and get that wild animal's hands off my neck. Here in the desert, far away from Tehran, he had all the power and he was the law. If he wanted, he could have made some serious allegations against me and have me persecuted. He could have even killed me on spot and got away with it. In retrospect, I actually regretted my carelessness; I should have controlled myself and just played along. In any event, after paying 5000 toman in fine for a bogus charge, I was released.

After going through a horrendous experience, I walked to the bus, got my luggage, and said goodbye to my friends. Before leaving, however, my best friend gave me the name of her cousin who worked at a travel agency and who could perhaps be of some assistance to me. Nevertheless, I had to take that long road all the way back to Tehran. First, I took a taxi to the town of Khoi. From there, I went by bus to Tabriz. There, I came to the same bus terminal where I had left my sons in Solomon's care not too long ago. I was physically exhausted and emotionally drained. At any rate, I had to carry on to Tehran. After a very long and strenuous journey from hell to hell, I reached Tehran at dawn. I stepped off the bus and onto a taxi heading to my friend's home.

Next morning, I went to the travel agency where my friend's cousin worked. I found my friend's cousin to be very pleasant and accommodating. The meeting with him went well and he promised to do his best to get me a ticket as soon as possible. I waited at his office while he checked around to see if he could find me a seat on the next available flight. It turned out that all flights were fully booked and there were no seats available on the flights leaving either that day or the day after. I had to wait a few days which was excruciating. Finally after three days of waiting, I got to fly to Turkey without anyone trying to stop me or claiming that I had to wait four months before I could travel abroad.

On landing in Istanbul, I was impatient and wanted to leave the plane as fast as I could. My friends were standing there waiting for me. I desperately looked for my sons in the crowd, but they were not there. I was told that it was dangerous for them to come to the airport. As such, they had no choice but to stay at the hotel and wait for me. During the week, I arranged their onward travel to Sweden. Naim wanted $5,000 to send my sons to Sweden, and he promised to do it as soon as he got the money. He got half of the money right there and then, and the other half was to be paid to him through one of his contacts in Tehran. Once the week was over and I was going to leave, my friends suggested that I stay another week and go back with them on the bus. I accepted their proposal because I wanted to have more time with my children. It was the beginning of November, and either because of the cold weather in Istanbul, or the massive stress and fatigue, I came down with the flu.

The journey back was unbearable. One minute I was freezing and another minute I was burning with fever. I had pain all over my body. My friends got me aspirin from a small store somewhere on the road. I was in a bad shape when we got home. My doctor confirmed that I had got pneumonia. With the help of antibiotics and painkillers, I was almost back on my feet after a week and could get on with sending the money to Naim through his contact in Tehran.

A week later Said called from Turkey and told me that my children Reza and Madjid had left Turkey for Sweden. According to Naim, their trip to Sweden was to take less time than Ali's trip. Three days later, I was told that my sons Reza and Madjid had arrived at Trelleborg in Sweden. It was an incredible feeling of relief to know that my children were fine and away from that miserable life in their own country, Iran.

I had to now turn my attention to my youngest son, Iraj. He was still living with my parents, where he was safe and no one knew anything about his family. The first thing I had to do was to change Iraj's school. In order to do so, I had to try to get his school records and while at it, I was going to get those of Reza's and Madjid's at the same time. The principal of the school wherein my three children were registered was a right-wing extremist and fundamentalist, who blatantly refused to release my sons' records to me. He maintained that the records could only be sent to another school or university. He also demanded that in future their father should come see him and not me. I was irritated and responded that they were my children as well; it was I who gave birth to them and not my husband, and, therefore, I had all the rights in the world to be there. He jumped up from his chair, slammed his fist on the table, and screamed, "How dare you stand in front of me and talk about your rights! According to Islam, women have no values or rights. You only have the right to be in the kitchen, cook, obey your man, and give birth to children!"

I realized I was not going to get anywhere. I also did not want any confrontations so, I turned around and left all infuriated and frustrated. As I passed by the archives room, I heard someone whisper my name. I turned around and saw one of the old staff from the previous administration. He had heard the argument that went on, and wanted to help me by giving me my sons' records from the archives. He put the files in a plastic bag and told me to leave the school as quickly as possible. I hid the bag under my veil and got out of the school right away. I came home with a big smile on my face and gave the school records to my husband to translate them. Since he was the father, he had to have the translated copies certified by someone else.

I was constantly traveling back and forth to the city where my parents lived in order to visit Iraj, who was very distressed and cried all the time. Also while I was in Turkey, my nineteen-year-old sister had got engaged, and I was asked to help make the arrangements for her wedding ceremony. Even though, I was in no mood to take up such task, I wanted to be accommodating. First of all, she was my sister and I wanted her to have a great wedding. Second of all, my parents were in no physical condition to make all the necessary arrangements themselves. Also, I felt indebted to my parents for taking care of my son for months without asking me for anything. So, I brought my sister to Tehran to stay with me so that we could go shopping for her dowry. Later, we were joined by her future husband and his family as well. As for the marriage, my sister has been happily married for years now, and she has three grown-up children. Sadly, however, her husband who was at first so very fond of me, eventually, turned into my biggest and worst enemy. He had an ordinary position in the public service, but then started working for the regime and became the mayor of the city they lived in.

In the midst of all this, my father also became ill, adding to my mental anguish. I was the one who had to take him to the doctors and labs. I was constantly driving back and forth between Tehran and the city where they lived. I was burned out. It felt like I did not have a life anymore. While being down, I still had to put on a happy face and look cheerful at the wedding reception.

Since I had stayed in touch with Naim all throughout the time that I was acting as a wedding planner, I had already made preparations for my son and me to leave for Turkey. I organized a farewell party for my son Iraj. In order not to draw any unwanted attention from our old neighbours, I held the party at my own apartment and invited my entire family. It was a gloomy experience for all of us. My parents were particularly sad since they knew they would never see any of their grandchildren again. Yet, there was no turning back. I had no choice in the matter as my son's life and future was at stake.

### My eleven-years-old son's escape, 1985

January 1985, we landed in Istanbul. Naim came to the airport to pick us up. All the way to the hotel, he promised that he was going to send my son to Sweden in a week or maximum two weeks timeframe. Next day, we got up to a massive snow storm that was unheard of in Turkey in fifty years. The day after, Naim came to the hotel and asked for $2,500 to make travel arrangements for my son. He got the money and promised to contact me within two days. We had nothing to do but to sit and wait for his phone call. After two days, I still had not heard anything from him so, I called his store and I got no answer. I found that strange since the store should have been open for, at least, someone to answer the phone. I became more nervous when I kept calling for another two days and still no answer. I decided to go there to see what was going on.

To my surprise, the store was closed and no one was there for me to even ask anything. I first became suspicious thinking that he might have been arrested by the police. I was fretful since if that was the case, who knew how long he was to be incarcerated. Feeling lost, we went back to the hotel. He did turn up later but with no real explanation.

For the better part of the month, my son and I were on pins and needles. Naim visited us only twice during that period. Every time we talked, he would come up with some sort of excuse as to why it had taken so long. The month was drawing to a close and still no progress. I was frustrated as I had paid him the full amount the very minute we had arrived in Istanbul. I was also concerned about my plane ticket which was only valid for a month; otherwise, I had to catch a bus to Tehran in the dead of winter. The undue stress was getting to us and we both came down with the flu.

During my month-long stay at the hotel, I was lucky to meet two wonderful and honourable Iranian families. A young woman named Fati with her husband Kamran and their 2-year-old son Hamed. An ex-military colonel called Rahmani with his wife Mahtab and their 12-year-old daughter Mandana. The two families were waiting for approval from the United Nations to travel to the United States; a process that used to take at least six months. As my plane ticket was reaching its expiration date, Naim suggested that I leave my son and head back to Tehran since he believed it would take another week before he could send my son. But there was no way I could have left my young son there by himself. So in utter desperation, I shared my story and my predicament, which I had kept to myself all along, with the two families I had met there. They gave me a big hug and offered to look after my son as if he was their own, which meant the world to me. Heartbroken, I went back to Iran hoping that Naim would keep his promise and send my son to Sweden within a week.

Once back home, I kept calling my son and Naim all the time. Iraj was homesick and did not feel well, and Naim did not have any better news for me either. I told Naim that maybe I should come back to Turkey, but he was insistent that there was absolutely no need for that. In the meanwhile, I got a surprise visit from a woman I had met at the hotel in Istanbul. I was a bit shocked that she had come to visit me at home since we were not that close. At any rate, she was there to tell me that my son, while missing me a lot, was doing alright and the two families were taking very good care of him. However, she wanted to warn me about Naim. She told me not to trust him as he was a charlatan, and he had no intentions of sending my son. Immediately after she left, I was out the door and purchased my bus ticket to Turkey for the next day. In order to catch Naim off guard, I did not even tell my son that I was coming. My family accompanied me to the bus terminal. Unbeknown to me, one of my male relatives had told the bus driver, who was from Turkey, to keep an eye on me since I was not feeling well.

We started driving off. I noticed that, now and again, the bus driver kept staring at me through his rear-view mirror. It was an unpleasant feeling so, I sank deeper into my seat and covered my face with my headscarf. In the evening when the bus stopped at a small restaurant, the driver came up to me and said something in Turkish which I, obviously, could not understand. A male passenger who had overheard the bus driver's comments came over to me and asked if I understood what he had said. I explained to him that I could not speak Turkish. Then, the male passenger told me that he had offered to take me to a hotel. All of a sudden, there was a clamour among the passengers who had gotten wind of what was going on. I was appalled and could not believe the audacity of that man to have allowed himself to approach me, and make such indecent proposal. A number of men confronted the bus driver and a few women came to lend me their support. Thanks to the compassion of the passengers, I was well protected for the duration of my bus trip to Istanbul. Fortunately, we Iranians have a tendency to try and help those in need of support, which is a wonderful trait as one can always count on others for help.

After three days of agony, we got to Istanbul. I got a taxi and headed to the hotel. Since that was my fourth time staying at that hotel, everyone at the reception recognized me as soon as I walked in. One of the hotel staff, who could speak Farsi very well, had become a good friend to us. He welcomed me back and went to call my son to come down. I told him not to do that since I wanted to surprise him. I then headed to Fati's room where I knew my son stayed. I went up to the room and hugged Fati and then went to my son's bedroom. The minute he saw me, he jumped out of the bed and gave me a big hug. We could hardly stop crying. I took my son and the two families who had been so kind to us out to dinner that night.

From what I gathered, when I had left Iraj in Turkey, he had been staying up all night in his room crying. Not only was he too young to be separated from me, but he was also, justifiably, scared to be alone. Being a great lady that she was, Fati had noticed that my son was not feeling well and that something was wrong. Out of concern for my son's wellbeing, Fati had then moved my son to their own room. With me back on the ground now, Iraj and I were going to have our own room.

The following day, without calling Naim, we went directly to his store. He could not believe his eyes, and did not hide his surprise when he saw me there. He asked astoundingly what I was doing in Turkey and when I had got back. Having had enough of everything he had put us through, I accused him of being an inconsiderate, irresponsible person who had no shame in taking advantage of people. I asked him why he had not sent my son away despite all the promises he had made. I argued that he was supposed to have sent my son to Sweden in two weeks, and here he was, still in Istanbul after all that time. I ultimately told him what I thought of him namely, that he was a crook who had managed to swindle money from us.

He tried to come up with all sorts of excuses as to why he had not yet sent my son away by blaming this, that, and the other. He said, for instance, that the police wanted more money, or that the border was closed, and even more interestingly, that the money was not sufficient to buy a ticket and a passport for my son.

I said, "Wait a second. Do you mean that the $2,500 you got from me was not enough? You should be ashamed of yourself for the pain you have caused me." I told him why he kept beating around the bush; that instead, he should just be a man about it and tell me to my face that he was not going to send my son. I was absolutely livid so I turned around and told him to either give me my money back so I can find another smuggler, or I would go to the police. He could not believe his ears. He was mad, but he tried to control himself. He then, told me that he would take care of everything. He asked me not to go to his store again, and promised to be in touch.

I had a right to be upset as I had too much on my plate. I was tired of traveling back and forth and going through so much hassles and aggravation every single time. I was also not well physically. Besides my major surgeries particularly, the one for cancer, I had also been down with flu left, right, and centre. I had to, additionally, consider the financial aspect of all of these unwarranted travel costs. Last but not least, I had the safety of my son to worry about, all alone and in a country like Turkey.

The days became weeks without any change in our situation. It had become almost impossible to get a hold of Naim. And even when I could get through, I could neither get any solid information from him nor an exact date for my son's travel. The day-to-day stress was killing me. On top of everything else that was infuriating, the hotel prices went up in spring and we were simply told to find another place to stay. The hotel management was getting ready to receive their spring and summer guests, and they did not want to have any permanent guests at their establishment! We moved to a new hotel, where we met many other Iranians who were in the same boat as us.

At the new hotel with my son (in green shirt) and our new friends

After two months of fierce fighting with Naim, he finally put the plan for my son's travel in motion. He called us to his store, and introduced us to a middleman who was going to accompany my son to the airport. I was to leave my son with that person at the airport the next day. At the airport, the man we met at Naim's store came forward, took my son's luggage, and told me to return to hotel and wait for my son to call from Sweden. I hugged my son between all the tears and sighs, and I wished him a pleasant trip. The plan was for them to pose as father and son traveling abroad. Apparently, Naim himself had major problems with the police and could not even approach the airport, something which I did not know prior to that.

I went back to the hotel. I was restless and could not sit still. I paced back and forth in my room, up and down the stairs, and could not calm down. When the night fell, I felt overwhelmed and I had a horrible feeling. I thought to myself how I could allow a twelve-year-old child to travel to Sweden via Bulgaria and East Germany all by himself. I tossed and turned all night, and I could not sleep.

At five o'clock in the morning, someone knocked on the door. At first, I avoided answering the door. I thought maybe it was a drunken man who knocked on the wrong door. But the knocking on the door continued stubbornly. Slowly, I went to the door and asked who it was. I was frozen when I heard the voice saying, "Mom open the door, it's me." I opened the door frenetically and could not understand what had gone wrong. Once in, my son told me that since Naim had not paid enough money to the chief of police at the airport, they were not allowed to board the plane. "They?!," I asked him who else was there. I was told that there were three more boys who were leaving as well, one of which was the same age as my son. I was confounded and asked him how he had got back to the hotel. He told me he got a cab from the airport on his own. I was outraged; I thought what if something had happened to my little boy, all alone, in a long taxi drive. I wondered how Naim could do that to my son; I was enraged. I was lost as to what to do. I was leery of going to the police to report him since I worried I may get arrested too. I was also aware of the fact that I could not get my money back.

Nonetheless, I had to do something. So, I started to go to Naim's store to get a hold of him, and I also kept calling him. But it seemed like he had gone under the ground as he was nowhere to be found. Even talking to his wife and his colleagues led nowhere as they refused to speak with me.

At that point, I decided to try a different strategy by means of talking to people whom I knew and could trust about my situation. A well-known Iranian family had a clothing store behind the hotel we had first stayed in. They were two brothers called Fakhredin who was a famous actor, and Aziz-Khan who was a designer. In addition to the boutique, they had a number of different businesses and they were well established. I went there to seek help from them. Once I told the brothers my story and what had happened, they got very upset. They were very sympathetic and wanted to help especially, since a couple of other people with similar complaints about Naim had gone to them asking for help. The brothers decided to call Naim right away.

Interestingly enough, they got Naim on the phone and the conversation was calm at first. Before long, however, there was a shouting match between the two parties talking on the phone whereby, Naim was told, in no uncertain terms, that he would be reported to the police if he did not send both my son and another boy they knew out of the country. In addition, Naim was told that he would be watched closely until both boys were safely in Sweden. All smugglers knew what it meant to be taken in by the police. They would have had to pay hefty fines and sit in jail for many years to come. Naim was painfully aware of how real the threats were so, he asked for one week to sort things out.

A few days later, my son and I were called into Naim's store for a meeting with the police chief. He spoke in Turkish and Naim translated for me. He was curious as to where my husband was, and what my plans were once my son left. As per Naim's earlier coaching, I replied that my husband was in Sweden and I was to join him once my son had made it there safely. The following day, in the company of two others, I took my son to the airport. My son left us and went inside the gate. I stood outside and watched him in trepidation. According to the plan, he was to go straight into the room that was next to the passport control and get his passport stamped. A little while longer, he came out and pointed at me to go in. I was puzzled, why would he want me to go in. I approached, but I was stopped by the police at the gate. One of my friends who had accompanied us there and could speak Turkish told the police that my son wanted me to go in. But the fascist police hit me hard in the chest and pushed me back aggressively to the point that I lost balance and fell. He just kept saying. "No, no," which meant I could not go in. My son stood anxiously on the other side, and watched what was happening to me in horror. He went back to the room and then came out with the police chief, who pointed at me and ordered that police officer to let me enter. I went in all shaken up and with pain in my chest. Once inside, the police chief asked me for money, and, in broken English, he told me that Naim had not paid him enough money. According to him, if I were to refuse to comply with his request, he would not let my son go. I was completely helpless and had no alternative but to pay him five hundred U.S. dollars in cash right there and then. He put the money in his pocket and stamped my son's passport. I hugged my son and came out of the gate. From behind the gate, I saw the police chief himself escorting my son to the gate for flights to Bulgaria. I told my friends that I was going to stay at the airport until the plane had left. I just wanted to make sure my son was on that flight; if not, at least I would have been there myself to take him back to the hotel. I certainly did not want my little boy to ride a cab all by himself ever again. Once I was confident that he had got on the plane, I left the airport with my friends and headed back to the hotel.

I had to wait two days before hearing from my son since, according to Naim, that was how long it was going to take for him to get to Sweden. During that period, I was absolutely beside myself. Too many things had gone wrong too many times in the past that I just did not know what to expect. I was so stressed out that I thought I was going out of my mind. Every time the phone rang, I jumped rushing to the phone in the hope that it was my son calling. On day two, I could hardly keep my emotions in check. All my friends in that hotel had come up to the room to keep me company. There was a deafening silence in that room until twelve o'clock when the phone rang.

I threw myself on the phone and picked up the receiver; it was my beloved son. He said, "Hi Mommy, it's me. I'm in Sweden, at Trelleborg with my brother Reza." I was ecstatic and crying of joy. Everyone around me was jumping up and down with joy. Shaking like a leaf, I leaned against a wall and thanked my friends for their support and kindness. My friends insisted on taking me out to celebrate the occasion while pointing out that I no longer had an excuse not to let my hair down and relax.

The following day, I went and visited Aziz-Khan and Fakhredin, the brothers who had lend me their support in my time of need. I thanked them from the bottom of my heart for what they had done for me and my son. I believe that without their backing, Naim would have not kept his end of the bargain. A week later, amid tears, laughter, and hugs, I thanked my friends, wished them luck, and headed to the bus terminal. After four months of so many ups and downs, so many heartaches and headaches, I was finally going home.

### Hit by tragedy

There was a dark and sombre mood at home. Everyone was dressed in black and they looked sad. My thoughts immediately went to my father, thinking something might have happened to him. I asked what had happened and no one would answer me. I was getting very angry and upset so I turned to my daughter and asked why she was wearing black. She told me, "Mom, Dad is gone!" At first I could not grasp what she said; that was not true. This was not fair, I thought. Now that everything was coming together and we could breathe a little easier, life had gone and dealt us yet, another blow. He had left suddenly and without saying goodbye. The longing after his children and the stress of life had ultimately taken their toll. He had died of a massive heart attack. I had got back six days after his death. Now he was gone and I was all alone and broken-hearted at the age of 38.

I was also concerned about my children and how they would take the news. How was I supposed to deliver such news to them when I knew how devastating it would be to them? No matter how hard I tried, I could not bring myself to tell them about their father. So for six months, I withheld the truth from them.

Life after my husband's death became even more dismal and dreary. I was now a young widow with the grave responsibility of raising a young family and no one to lean on. My children were not only left without a father, but, due to our set of circumstances, they were also cheated out of their inheritance.

Six months after the passing of my husband and despite my best efforts to keep it to myself, one day I had a phone call from my son, Ali, in Sweden. He came straight out and asked me why I had kept it a secret that his father had passed away. I was shocked that he knew, and asked him how he had found out about it. He told me that he had a bad feeling and had got in touch with an old friend of his, who still lived in Iran, to find out what was going on. It was a very emotional moment for both of us over the phone as we talked about the tragic loss of his father, my husband. He then told me how worried he was about me. He wondered how I was holding up, and what I was going to do. He then asked me to consider immigrating to Sweden. He stated that he would send the necessary paperwork for me to go to the embassy and start the process.

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### A new chapter in my life

After the conversation with my son, I got worried about my children's state of mind now that they had been made aware of their father's death. How they were going to cope with it on their own, I wondered. Considering all that they had gone through, how could they withstand such deadly blow? Although I was young myself and my life had been, of late, nothing but a hellish nightmare, I had to stay strong for the sake of my children. I had to try to keep it together since my children needed me, now more than ever.

The day after I spoke with Ali, I thought I may be able to acquire my Swedish visa faster if I were to apply from Germany. With that in mind, I went to the German embassy early next morning with my plane ticket, and sufficient German currency for my duration of stay in Germany up until getting my Swedish visa. It was almost late in the afternoon when I got my visa issued. The officer who looked after my case wanted to know the reason for my visit. When I told him why I was going to Germany, he advised me not to waste my time or money since I could not be given a Swedish visa in another country. In other words, since Sweden had an embassy in Iran, I had to apply for visa in my own country. He suggested that I call Swedish embassy and explain my situation, which he was sure would be looked at favourably. I thanked him for the information and left with a German visa in my passport. I called the Swedish embassy as soon as I came out and I got an appointment for the following day.

The following day, I got to the Swedish embassy bright and early. After standing in the queue for sometime, I went in and met with a lady officer, who was very compassionate and understanding. By noon, I had received my visa and I felt a sense of lightness in my steps. Unfortunately, I could not get a visa for my daughter since she was not a minor and could not therefore, be considered as a dependant. The only option for her was to get to Turkey and pay a smuggler to get to Sweden.

Within a month, I made all the necessary arrangements. I went to my family to say farewell. And on the last night of my stay in Iran, I leased my condominium to a friend of my good friend.

### There is no escape from fate

It is peculiar how the month of October has always been significant in my life. It was in October 1962 that I got engaged; I got my driver's license in October 1969; I got my pilot's license in October 1974; I sent two of my sons out of the country in October 1984; and, I left my country for Sweden in October 1985, which marked the beginning of a new chapter in my life albeit, in exile.

I packed and shipped all the memorabilia, clothes and personal belongings that I could not take with me to the airport. Overall, I had fourteen heavy luggages for freight. One of Ali's faithful friends was there to lend a hand. After a long and tedious day at the Customs, I got to send my baggage minus some items that were tagged as antique and were therefore, prohibited from shipping outside the country. Now my baggages were on their way to my new home, but my heart had a hard time letting go. From then on, all I had to content myself with were my memories, which, at least, no one could take away from me.

While some memories fade away, and others stay in the forefront of one's mind, none is ever truly lost. As I sat to write down my life history, I had to relive some of the darkest, harshest, and most hectic periods of my life. A traumatic experience: one which has left me feeling abandoned and more alone than ever. Looking back, I, sometimes, wonder how I got through it all.

### October 1985

The sun was shining when I woke up in the morning of the day of departure. I stayed in bed for a long time and thought about my life; where I was going and why. My heart felt heavy and for a moment, I thought of cancelling my trip. I did not want to let go of my home, my country, my family and friends, but I had no choice. I had to be at the airport at one o'clock, even though the plane would not leave until four o'clock in the afternoon. Sharp at eleven o'clock, the taxi showed up. Driving through the city, I got to breathe Tehran's air for the last time. I was leaving behind the good, the bad, and the ugly. It felt unreal that my life had been slowly but surely destroyed in a matter of six years.

After an hour, I arrived at Teheran's Mehr Abad airport. There was no turning back now. When the taxi finally came to a stop in front of the airport, the driver turned around and gave me an inquisitive look and said, "Are you going to leave Iran?"

I hesitated a moment, but then nodded. I thought to myself, I was leaving my country for Sweden. After a lifetime of living in Iran, I was left with nothing. Everything had been taken away from me.

The airport was full of passengers and their relatives who wanted to say goodbye to their loved ones. It was exactly the same for me as my family and friends had come to the airport to say goodbye and to wish me well. The checking-in process was as laborious and gruelling as ever. The inspection of the luggage, the body search, the rudeness, the chaos, they were all the same as always. As I sat on the plane, I wondered whether I should feel regret leaving albeit, a life in misery, or feel happy to move to a free country where human rights were upheld. Looking out the window, I could see Tehran getting eventually smaller and smaller, the city I was born in and raised. Then, it completely disappeared behind the horizon. I was aware how I would never come to live in that country again. With my eyes closed, I delved into my memories. I did not notice how time passed before the captain announced that we had left Iran's air space and we were in Turkey's air space. I felt tears running down my face; this was the end of a life I had lived in my country. I could never imagine leaving my country like that. I had always dreamt of emigrating from Iran, of my own free will, to live in the United States. However, I never thought to be forced to flee the country. I must have felt asleep at some point since I was woken up by the passenger in the next seat. According to him, I must have had nightmares because I was crying while sleep and he wanted to know if I was okay.

Apparently, I must have also talked while sleep since he knew that I had left Iran for good. So he started asking me a few questions perhaps, out of sympathy, or maybe, out of curiosity. I just did not know if I could trust a total stranger and talk much about my personal life. I would have much preferred if he had left me alone and let me be. Yet, I needed to talk to someone as the sorrow was great. In my condition, I found it necessary to open up. He asked why I was leaving Iran and what country I was going to. I refused to say why I was leaving, but I told him I was going to Sweden. We carried on with the conversation until we landed in Istanbul.

This was the sixth time I had arrived in Istanbul. But this time was different from all the previous ones. This time, I did not have to meet a smuggler, or go through all those emotional roller-coasters that I had experienced one too many time before. This time I was only staying for ten days to oversee my daughter's trip to Sweden. She had left Iran ahead of me and was on her way to Turkey. After three days of being on the bus, she got to Turkey two days after I had got in. We met at the bus terminal.

The search for a smuggler did not take long. The two brothers, who once helped me when I ran into difficulty with Naim, provided me with the name and phone number of someone who was truly a very reliable person. Since I could not stay more than ten days myself, I left my daughter in Turkey fully confident that we would be soon reunited in Sweden. So I packed up again and flew to Stockholm to join my sons. I was longing to see my sons and I was excited to be with them again. By then, it had been a year and half that I had not seen Ali; a year since I had sent my sons Reza and Madjid to Sweden; and, five months since I had been separated from my little son Iraj. It was extremely gratifying for me to hear that they had moved out of the refugee camp and were living together in a real apartment in Jönköping.

### An unknown destiny

From up in the air, I looked at Stockholm. Because of the darkness, I could not see the ground that well. There did not seem to be a lot of light on the ground and in the vicinity of the airport, just a few building that were in the dark. For the most part, there seemed to be lots of woods and many bodies of water here and there. Compared to all the countries I had traveled to in the past, Stockholm seemed to be a small city, quiet and dark.

In the evening of October 17th, 1985, I landed at the Arlanda airport and had, at long last, arrived in Sweden. As there were hardly any passengers at the airport, it did not take long to go through the passport control and to get my luggage.

I found the language to be completely different. I also found it puzzling as to why the staff were so quiet, had no smiles on their lips, and would not return one's simple greeting. At first, I thought maybe something had happened at the airport that had affected the staff's mood. But no it must have been something on a larger scale, I thought, since wherever I went, I encountered the same reception. That was my very first impression of Swedes' attitude towards strangers.

I looked to find a porter who could help me with my luggage to no avail. In all other countries, including mine, there are porters to help passengers with their suitcases. Since there were no porters at the airport, nor was there any help from other passengers, I lifted my two heavy suitcases and a few large and heavy hand-baggages I had, and put them in the cart. I headed out toward the arrival hall and stood there waiting for my children. After waiting for a while, I thought to call them to see what had happened. At the information desk, I found out that the phone number I had did not belong to Stockholm rather, to Jönköping, which is about four hundred kilometres south of Stockholm. This was the first unpleasant shock. I exchanged some of my US dollars to the Swedish kronor to be able to call my kids and also to get something to eat.

Reza picked up the phone and cheerfully welcomed me to Sweden. He then told me that there were not going to be any trains at that time to Jönköping so, I had to stay at the airport overnight. I also got to talk to Madjid and Iraj, who were emotional to hear my voice. But I did not get to speak with Ali as he was not home at the time. Tired, disappointed, and disheartened, I went to the information desk again. The hotel they recommended was not only a bit too far, but also a bit too expensive to my liking. The only option then was to crash on a sofa at the airport. I bought a cup of coffee from the airport's small cafeteria, which outrageously cost 18 Swedish kronor or the equivalent of 720 Iranian toman.

While I was drinking my precious, strong, and bitter coffee, I watched a bit of news on TV. Although I did not understand the Swedish language, I contented myself with just looking at the images. I saw a piece of news about my shattered country. Saddam had attacked parts of northern Iran on the Caspian Sea including, the holy city of Mashhad in Khorasan province. After news, there was a show hosted by a very handsome man and a nice looking woman. The following week when I saw the same programme at home, I found out from my children what the programme was called and the name of the male host which was Magnus Härenstam.

Then I watched a programme about wildlife. It was really upsetting for me to have to sit on an uncomfortable sofa at the airport, dead tired and disappointed, and watch a show about animals. We had plenty of such programmes in my impecunious country. After the revolution, programmes that were aired on TV had to do with either wildlife or mullahs.

At eleven o'clock at night, the TV programmes ended and the TV was turned off. I was surprised, "Why so early?" I went to the information desk and asked one of those angry and tired female staff why they had turned the TV off. One of them explained that there were only two TV channels with broadcasting times between 5 in the afternoon to 11 at night. So that was it!

I was reminded of my trip to Bulgaria in 1980. Their television programmes also ended at 11 at night. I suppose one had to be happy that at least, there at the airport, the TV was in colour and not black and white as it was in Bulgaria. At any rate, it was cumbersome to sleep on a sofa with all my luggages placed next to the sofa. I held my purse tight to my chest, just in case. My whole life was in that little purse namely, my passport, money, personal documents and jewellery. I fell asleep sitting there waiting for the morning light.

In the morning, I bought a so-called cheese sandwich, which was just a small piece of bread with one slice of cheese on it, and a cup of coffee, and paid 40 Swedish kronor or equivalent of 1600 Iranian toman for me. After that, I left my luggage at the Arlanda airport's short-term storage for a high fee, and went by bus to the Customs to retrieve my other luggage that I had shipped in advance to Sweden, and came back to the airport. Then, I took a taxi to Stockholm's Central Station called T-Central.

On the long road between the Arlanda airport and Stockholm, I looked out the window at the country which was going to be my new home. All I could see were large farms, a handful of medium and high-rise apartment buildings and a few small houses scattered here and there. The apartment buildings' facade reminded me once again of Bulgaria and their housing complexes.

The weather was cloudy, grey, and it had started to drizzle. Everything looked sour, no one and nothing seemed to smile at me. The taxi drove towards downtown, the streets were not so wide, and they seemed quiet and almost empty of people and traffic. I was less than impressed when I first saw Stockholm, Sweden's capital city.

Traditionally in Sweden, it was not common for the well-to-do to put their wealth on public display. The Swedes were very discreet about their personal and financial matters. Contrary to countries like mine, where people would go out of their way to flaunt their good fortunes, the opposite was true in Sweden. In recent years however, there has been an overall change in people's perspective, whereby the affluent are more open and willing to boast about their financial status.

One thing is clear though, we human beings are all the same in certain aspects. We all have our prejudices including Swedes, which probably accounts, in part, for why immigrants have a hard time to fully integrate into the Swedish society. Refugees and immigrants are always taken as poor, uneducated, uncivilized, and nowadays even terrorists. The most bizarre thing is that we are judged on the basis of our governments' actions and policies. We are condemned on the account of our governments' views, the very draconian and despotic regimes from the tyranny of which we once escaped. We are viewed in the same light as our countries' autocratic rulers with whom we feel no affinity, or else we would not have chosen a life in exile as we did. We are persecuted as a result of our inherited religious affiliations regardless of our own personal convictions. Iran was a country of diverse ethnic background be it on the grounds of race, culture, language, or religion. Sadly however, the facts are either lost on people or simply ignored. The only one thing that is constantly and consistently harped on is that we are from Iran with all its negative connotation.

When the taxi stopped at the Central Station, there were hardly any sites to see. Everything seemed to be ordinary, dull and old. I was rather disappointed and apprehensive of what Jönköping was going to be like. I asked the taxi driver where to buy a ticket to Jönköping. He pointed the way and put my fourteen pieces of luggage into two large carts. Then he got his money, wished me luck and drove away!

I was then alone with two large carts filled to the top. Since I could not carry both carts to the ticket counter simultaneously, I had to move one cart at a time. I bought my ticket and then, I asked how to get my luggage to Jönköping. The clerk explained in half English and half Swedish, which I could really not understand, that I had to take the elevator down and load them on to the train. Standing behind me were impatient and unsympathetic people who started mumbling something in Swedish language. I left the ticket counter disconcerted and started to carry my carts to the elevator, which did not have enough room for both my carts. I did not know what to do. I could not do anything except for leaving one cart up, going down with another, leave that one downstairs, and come back up to take the other one. I considered myself lucky that none of my carts or baggage went missing.

I had only ten minutes to load all my suitcases on the train, but how? I was lost and bewildered. I really needed a helping hand. Then like an angel, an African man came to my rescue. He asked me, "Do you need help?" "Yes, yes please," I said. He helped me load my suitcases on the train. He refused to accept anything for helping me, since as he said, he just wanted to help me. I thanked him for his kindness, which I still do every time I think back at that experience. Because of his help, I managed to make it on that train. Otherwise, I would have had to stay there and miss the train. On the train, I found my seat, and I threw myself on the chair like a lump. Even though I was dead tired, I did not doze off or sleep. I was not just tired; I was also hungry and thirsty. The woman who sat next to me showed some interest in chatting with me. Her name was Eva. She was friendly, but a bit curious and wanted to know what country I had come from, and if I was a refugee. She was also interested to find out where I would live and for how long.

When the ticket inspector came around and saw my ticket, he told me that I had to change trains in Nässjö! I thought, "Nässjö? Why?"

It was the same nice lady, Eva, who explained that the train I was on did not go directly to Jönköping; rather, I had to catch another train from Nässjö. Since she was from Nässjö and was going to get off there, she promised to point me to the right platform that I needed to go to. Once at Nässjö, she was kind enough to give me a hand and with the help of a male passenger, we got the suitcases off the train. They were both very kind and I thanked them both. I had only ten minutes then to catch the second train, which I could have very well missed, had it not been for Eva who ran to one of the station's staff asking him for help. They both helped me load my suitcases onto the carts. I was genuinely thankful for Eva's help. I headed to the other platform. When I tearfully sat on the chair in the second train, I cursed Khomeini and his regime. He had ruined my life; he had ruined a nation; he had ruined the entire country.

### Jönköping, October 1985

At five o'clock in the afternoon, the train came to a stop at the station in Jönköping. I thought my kids would at least be there to receive me, but no, they were not there. What would I do now? The staff at the taxi booth pointed to a phone that was mounted on the wall and said, "You can call the taxi here." Since my suitcases would not have fit in a regular cab, I had to get a van. At that point, I actually wished that I could throw the luggage in the big lake that I had noticed along the way to Jönköping.

All the troubles that I went through for 24 hours prior to getting to Jönköping could have been eliminated, had the social welfare officers informed my children that I could land in Axamo instead of Stockholm. Besides that, since my kids were refugees, they could have requested for financial help from social services to even come to Stockholm to pick me up.

My children lived in Öxnehaga, a residential area in Huskvarna in Jönköping.

October 1985, Öxnehaga in Jönköping

The taxi stopped right in the same place where Ali and I were standing in the picture. The area and the buildings were very unusual for me. The style of the buildings had no resemblance to those I was familiar with. Residential dwellings were two-story building with spiral staircases. Once arrived in the area, I truly thought that I was in a science fiction movie.

The house number was right, but I had no idea on which floor my children lived. While the driver unloaded my bags, I tried to figure out which apartment my sons lived in. Unfortunately, the entrance door was locked, and there was no way to contact anyone inside to come open the door. Luckily a neighbour came out, which gave me the chance to get in and check the name plates on the apartment doors. They lived right on the first floor, and they were thrilled to see me. Standing by the door, I could not help notice the low standard of living and the awful shape the apartment was in. They lived in a three-bedroom, run-down apartment. The housing agency responsible for those apartment buildings was called Riksbyggen and they were not going to make any renovations to the apartments until January 1986.

I heard the taxi driver shouting from outside looking for his fare and I came out. I found that strange though since his taxi-meter was still running and he was not losing any money for waiting there.

With mixed feelings, I sat exhausted on the floor and embraced my children again. Thinking back at all the misery we had gone through, all we had endured, and for what? A wrecked life? A dull and basic existence? I survived all the pain and suffering in the life that was behind me. However, I stood face to face with new challenges ahead of me; a lonely, heart-broken and helpless human being in a completely foreign country. Will I ever manage to make a life for my children and I?

On Sunday which was the third day I had got to Sweden, Ali suggested we go see Jönköping's downtown area. As we stood at the bus stop in Öxnehaga center, I looked at a hand full of stores that were not even open. Besides my sons and I, no body else was out. Aside from the beautiful autumn colors of the nature, everything else was dull and drab. What most surprised me was the sight of all the churches! "My God, what is this?," I asked my son. He told me that the city was called Sweden's Jerusalem or Mecca. I had no idea that Swedes were religious. The bus stopped in downtown Jönköping which comprised of a few shops on the so called 'Big Street.' According to Ali, the entire city consisted of only one large and one small street, which were the only places I could go to when my children were at school. I was also told that the stores closed down on Saturday afternoons and re-opened Monday mornings. I remember I turned around to my sons and in firm voice, I said, "I will go back to Iran! I cannot live like this, this is not my life. There is no life here."

Summer of 1987,"Big Street" (Storgatan), Jönköping's downtown

The following week, Mari-Ann and Inge Karlsson came and picked us up. They lived with their two-year-old daughter Mariann in Tenhult which was a bit away from Huskvarna towards Nässjö. Their house was situated next to a cemetery and an old church. Mari-Ann and Inge were very nice people and they invited us over to a Swedish meal, coffee, and homemade cake. They had been assigned as contacts to my children, and they wanted to know if I wanted to make any changes to that arrangement. I thanked them for helping my children, and asked them to kindly stay in touch as I did not know anyone myself.

For many years to come, I enjoyed their company and appreciated their friendship. We got to celebrate many birthdays and new years together, meet their family and friends such as, Kerstin Hultgren and her father Samuel, and Jan Andersson and his son Erik, who all lived in Nässjö. Mari-Ann and Inge did everything they could to help me settle in my new country. They took us around the municipality of Jönköping, and gave us a tour of Vättern, Huskvarna, Gränna, and Visingsö.

The view over Huskvarna from the Vista hill

The places we visited were magnificent and breathtaking, however despite all that beauty, I grew more and more distant from my surroundings. I cried all the time. Besides my children, I had no one else to talk to or to seek support from. I was also worried about my daughter's fate, which was in the hands of a smuggler. Unfortunately, I could not leave Sweden before I had got my residence permit.

1987, City Park in Jönköping with my son Madjid

### Domestic violence incident

I got to meet our next door neighbours, a young couple and their sweet little girl, when she was severely beaten by her partner. I had no idea if they were married or not, nor did it make a difference to me. We had seen her getting on and off the police cars in the past. One day someone knocked on our door. It was her standing there with bruises on her face and bloody hands. She wanted our help to call the police. I let her come in and make the call herself.

I could not believe my eyes though, that something like this would happen in Sweden. Shortly after the last assault on her by her partner, they were both taken to the police station and did not come back for a long time. Ultimately, they moved out of that apartment building.

I visited Sanda high school where my kids studied the Swedish language and met their teachers at a so-called international evening, when all students were to cook a meal and bring it to the gathering. All the dishes, which were decorated with the students' national flags, were laid on a long table. I got, for the first time, a taste of Jansson's Temptation, a casserole made with potatoes, onions and anchovies.

November 1985, Sanda high school, with Reza, Madjid, and Iraj

My days were, for the most part, spent at home with not much to occupy me. Every day when the kids went to school, I would find myself sitting and crying. Many time, I thought of packing my things and going back to Iran. That quiet and unexciting life did not suit me at all. My troubles were not entirely over as there remained the concern for my daughter. Sadly, the smuggler could not send her to Sweden and had to come up with another destination. She spent quite a while in Turkey and later on, in Yugoslavia. She was then taken to Italy by means of walking through the woods from the border of Yugoslavia and Italy only to return back to Yugoslavia by catching a train and going through Bulgaria. In my last conversation with the smuggler, I was told that Canada was the only available option for my daughter. As such, in December 1985, I finally got a phone call from my daughter that she had arrived in Toronto. I promised her that as soon as I get my residence permit, I would go over for a visit. Unfortunately however, it was not until March 1990 when we finally saw each other again after five long and painful years.

I lived a mundane life with absolutely nothing to do. I decided many times to go back to Iran, but every time my children talked me out of it. They were worried that if I were to leave, I would jeopardize my residence permit. I realized I had no choice but to stay put for a while. I had to hang in there and put up with the freezing cold weather and massive darkness that I had never experienced in my whole life. The month of December was so dark, cold, and depressing that even the beautiful Lucia Day ceremony and all the excitement of Christmas could not cheer me up.

I was still thankful to have caring friends who thought of us during that difficult period. On Christmas Eve, we were invited over to our friends Mari-Ann and Inge. Christmas dinner was something new for me, and it consisted of meatballs, sausage, salmon, herring and a variety of stockfish. And later on, glogg with "Lucia cat" saffron buns and cinnamon buns. On New Year's Eve, we were invited by Kerstin and Jan to Nässjö. Those were among my first fine memories in my new home Sweden.

31 December 1985, the first New Year's celebration at Kerstin Hultgren

### 1986

The year started as a more promising one. I got my residence permit and my work permit. I was allowed to start the SFI (Swedish for Immigrants) course, where I also got the opportunity to meet people from different parts of the world. As a part of the course, I went on various excursions in Jönköping, which were interesting. Also in our lessons, I got to know a bit more about the city. I discovered new areas and some new streets, which were places that my children would not have been interested to discover. It was understandable because first, they were new to the city themselves. And second, they were not in the mood to play tourist after having gone through so much misery prior to getting there.

Spring was around the corner with slightly milder weather even if the temperature was still hovering below zero. No matter what, I was just happy that it was not minus 40 degrees. The days were getting brighter and more beautiful despite lots of snow that was still on the ground.

Calle Örnemark's sculpture in Barnrap in the municipality of Jönköping. He is well-known for his wood sculptures

I wanted to keep our Persian traditions alive. Therefore, I invited the two Swedish families that had become our best friends to Persian food, Persian traditional homemade cakes, and Persian dance and music, which were very much appreciated by our friends. I myself was happy to show some of our traditions to Swedish people, many of whom did not have any idea about other people's customs and traditions. Many did not know, for instance, that we also celebrate Christmas and New Year.

1986, my first Persian New Year in Jönköping with my Swedish friends and my sons

Persian New Year dinner-table: fish, seasoned vegetable gratin, rice with seasoned vegetable and saffron

Traditional Persian New Year table with 7 items that start with the letter 'S' and are symbolic of best wishes for the New Year

Inge, Maria, Jan, Sammuel, Kerstin, Ali, Mari-Ann, Erik, Iraj, Reza, and I

### Walpurgis Night

End April, in that freezing cold weather and with snow still on the ground, we decided to go to the city park and celebrate the wonderful Walpurgis Night ceremony. It reminded me in fact of a ritual that is carried out as a part of the Persian New Year tradition namely, the jumping over the fire ceremony. To see so many out was amazing for me since I had not seen so many people in one place ever since the Lucia Day celebration. We appreciated the warmth and the magnificent firework.

2005, Akalla north of Stockholm 2005, I was a speaker at Akalla by's Walpurgis night

Although the sun shone throughout the entire month of May, it was still winter in my heart.

For a change of scenery, I decided to take a trip to Austria and visit a family member who had sought asylum in Vienna and lived there. I contacted a travel agent in Huskvarna and purchased a trip to Austria via Germany by bus and train. Since the travel agency was to obtain visas to both countries for me, I had to pay for the trip and the cost of my visas to both Germany and Austria.

Travel day was approaching, but the travel agency had not yet returned my passport or give me my ticket. After many visits and phone calls, the travel agency informed me that my passport was lost. I was furious and angry. It was not going to be an easy process to get a new passport. I was home all upset and lost when, all of a sudden, I got a pleasant surprise in the mail. An envelope from the Austrian Embassy which contained my passport.

Early in the morning the next day, I was on the bus to Germany. Late in the afternoon we came to Trelleborg, the city where all my kids had come to when they first arrived in Sweden. From there, we boarded a ship and the next morning, we were seated on the bus waiting for the passport control. The border police began to check everyone's passports. He carefully examined my passport and the stamped visa. He went out with my passport, and, after a while, came back and ordered me to get off the bus. I followed him to the office. Oddly, none of the officers spoke English, or rather, they did not want to. The driver came to help me as an interpreter. Then they started to interrogate me, which reminded me of the revolutionary guards at the border of Iran and Turkey. It turned out that I had a one week visa to Austria, but only one day visa to Germany, which meant I could not go through Germany on my way back to Sweden. As a result, they suspected that I was lying and wanted to seek asylum in Austria. The fact that I showed them my Swedish residence permit card and Swedish identification card did not make a difference either. As a result of the travel agency's mistake, I was prevented from entering the country and therefore, taken back to the bus.

The officer held my passport in one hand and in the other my bag. He took me back to the same ship I was on the previous night, which was going back to Sweden. He gave my passport and my bag to one of the crew members and said something in German to her, while looking at me suspiciously. When he left, I asked the female crew what that was about. She said, "You have been deported from Germany because they think you want to apply for asylum in Austria!" I looked nervously at her and told her that there was no reason for me to do so. That I was not even a refugee in Sweden. She just looked at me without saying a word, and I realized that even she had her doubts.

In the afternoon we were back in Trelleborg again. While holding my bag and passport, she took me to the passport control office. The officer checked my passport, my residence permit and ID card. He then looked at me and said, "Everything is real, why did they deport you?"

When I came out of the Customs, I wondered how I was going to get to Jönköping. I asked a few people around who suggested I wait till the next morning and take the train. There were a number of buses around so I thought to go and ask them whether I could catch a ride with them. Unfortunately though, they were all charter buses and could not accommodate me. Finally I told one of the bus drivers what had happened to me at which point, he scratched his head and said, "Wait, I have to ask my passengers, we are going to Finland, but we pass Jönköping. If they accept, you can ride with us." Thankfully, those kind people had no objections and took me on board. They even invited me to coffee, cookies and Finnish pastries. When we arrived in Jönköping, I thanked them for their kindness and hospitality.

Two weeks later, without being able to get any compensation from the agency for their mistake which had caused me trouble, I had to repeat the whole process. I bought a trip to Austria again and traveled the same route one more time. However this time, with no hiccups even though my knees were shaking when we passed through the Customs in Germany.

At SFI course, I preferred to talk with my teacher than with my classmates. After all, we were there to learn Swedish. The conversation with classmates always failed. We could not understand each other. We all spoke different languages, and none of us could really speak Swedish. I got to know an elderly teacher named Barbro and through her, I met Marianne Gottländer and Ruth Fröländ, who in turn introduced me to their friend Ingrid. With their help, kindness, and compassion, those wonderful people gradually changed my perspective on life in my new country. They were all teachers in adult education. They helped me with learning the Swedish language and learning about Swedish society that was very important to me as a newcomer. Every Tuesday, I was at Ingrid's home practicing my Swedish language. They also took me around Jönköping many times. All in all, we used to come and go all the time. Ruth who was involved in different associations, as well as, being active in various projects through the United Nations such as, integration and culture, took me along and helped me become a member in some of those associations.

International party with my classmates and my teacher Ingrid at SFI course in Jönköping

At Ingrid's home (my SFI teacher)

The Swedish course was only 400 hours. After completing that course, I looked for other courses. I did not want to sit at home and receive social assistance, I did not need that. I wanted to be a part of the community, to work, and simultaneously learn the language. But it was not easy. Since I was a trained pilot and worked in the insurance industry in my country, I tried to look for jobs in those fields, but to no avail. The job offers I got instead were to work as a maid, dishwasher, care-giver for elderly or handicap, and factory labour.

When all my attempts to find a suitable job failed, I ultimately settled to just work on my language skills. Therefore, I went on a course at the AMU Centre.

Our teacher was from Skåne and it was really hard for students, at least for me, to understand her accent. Although she was a very nice person, I was not happy there. She was soon replaced by another teacher called Barbro. She was a sweet, elderly lady who was very understanding.

1986, the course at AMU-Center in Jönköping

My son Ali also happened to take a welding course at the same facility to learn a trade, get a job, and then continue his studies.

Life continued slowly and monotonously. In that dull life, everything remained the same except that the days were getting longer which was a new phenomenon for me.

### Meeting the Mellegård family

My kids and I used to take the local buses to get around Jönköping. One day when we were talking Persian on the bus to Bankryd, we noticed a Swedish girl, who sat behind us, leaned forward to listen to what we were saying. Madjid got irritated and asked me why she would do that. I told him to let it be, that perhaps, she was curious about the language we spoke! To our surprise, however, she stretched her hand out and speaking in Farsi introduced herself as Sophie Mellegård and asked us what our names were. I could not believe my ears, a beautiful, blonde, blue eyes, young Swedish girl was speaking my language with a sweet accent. With amazement and joy, we introduced ourselves and asked her how she knew Persian.

As it turned out, her entire family lived in Iran for ten years before the revolution. Her Father Jan-Olof worked as a construction engineer, and her mother Else was a Swedish teacher to Swedish children who used to live in Iran. The family Mellegård had two daughters when they moved to Iran and had their third daughter Mia while living there.

Mellegård family left Iran three years before the revolution. Sophie was excited for us to meet her parents who could speak Farsi. We exchanged phone numbers and we were going to be in touch the minute her parents were back from their overseas vacation. I was delighted to have met her and looked forward to meeting her family.

The friendship with Mellegård family was very precious to me. I felt very much at home with them as they knew about my country and our background. Their home was covered with wall-to-wall Persian rugs and decorated with many Persian handicrafts. We got to see their family videos and pictures from when they lived in Iran. The family Mellegård soon became one of our best and closest friends. I feel lucky that after 26 years, we are still in touch with each other. Thanks to them, we also got to meet and make friends with other wonderful Swedish people in Jönköping.

### The Midsummer Eve in June

The entire month of June, the weather was amazingly cold and it rained non-stop. There was much talk about the midsummer in school. The midsummer is a holiday in Sweden to celebrate the summer solstice. I found out that there was going to be a Midsummer celebration held somewhere in Vättern. That day, we took the bus and headed to the location where the ceremony was to be held. Honestly for me, it felt more like mid-winter than mid-summer. The weather was just 41°F. Also due to heavy rain fall, we had to stay indoors. I was excited to see the great maypole, but unfortunately that year, it was not possible for the ceremony to be held, and I had to wait for the following year's ceremony.

Maypole is a rod covered with leaves and flowers, and erected on the Midsummer Eve. People gather around the maypole as they hold hands and dance. The most common maypole looks like a cross with a crown attached to the tip of each arm.

1997 in Akalla-by, north of Stockholm

In July of that year, our friends Amin and his wife Eva-Lena wanted to go to Varberg and Falkenberg. They invited me to join them that weekend for an adventurous camping trip. I accepted and went with them provided that I pay for my share of the trip. We experienced all kinds of weather from sunbathing on the beach to sheltering ourselves in our tents from the harsh winds and pouring rain. We walked around, and I got to enjoy the nature in that beautiful part of Sweden.

When we were back home and I wanted to pay for my share of the cost for the trip, they refused to take the money and told me it was my birthday gift. I thought that was very nice of them. On July 15th, we were also invited to Nässjö by Kerstin and Jan. They had organized a small 40th birthday party for me. Inge, Mari-Ann and their little daughter Mariann were there too.

1986, my 40-year-old birthday in Nässjö, my son Ali and Erik are also seen in the picture

Now it was time for one of my children to leave home. Reza, who finished his course at Sanda High School, was to take a couple of subjects at adult high school. His goal was to continue his studies at KTH, the Royal Institute of Technology. He got a room in the dormitory and moved there. Now my other son Madjid, who from the time of my arrival had slept on the sofa-bed in the living room, could move to the bedroom.

After the holiday month of July ended, I continued my preparatory course at the AMU centre, which I did not like. The fact was that the courses were a waste of time for students and a waste of money for the state. No one learned anything. In reality, I wanted to work and learn the language simultaneously rather than just going to school and coming home.

One day I received a disturbing letter from home. My tenant had informed my son's best friend that the revolutionary guards wanted to take over my condominium on the presumption that I had sought asylum elsewhere and thus could not return to Iran. They wanted my tenant to turn over the lease contract to them and move out. I panicked when I read the letter. I immediately called my son's friend and asked him to advise my tenant not to go through with that. I also wanted my tenant to know that I was coming back, but that I did not want anyone to know about it.

Luckily, I had my return ticket and did not need to buy a new one. It was just a matter of going to the travel agency and booking the flight.

This time, I avoided traveling by train to Stockholm. Instead I rented a car and went to Stockholm with the whole family. At the airport, I said goodbye to my sons who were going to head back to Jönköping. I, on the other hand, was returning to the hell-hole I had left behind ten months earlier. There were no direct flights so I had to fly to Italy first and then change planes there.

When we landed in Rome and came out to the transit, we were told that our connecting flight was delayed. I knew that my son's friend and my friend were going to be at the Mehr Abad airport in Tehran to pick me up. Unfortunately I had no way of informing them that I was going to arrive late. Even my kids did not know about the delay.

On the Iran-Air flight to Tehran, I was extra vigilant with my veil, and made sure not to wear any make-up or have nail polish. I sat quietly and did not talk to anyone. I was going back with the intention of selling my condominium as soon I could and head back to Sweden.

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### My last trip to Iran, August 1986

After 22 hours of travel time, we landed at Tehran's airport. At the passport control, the interrogation was going on full force as always. This time, among others, they wanted to know why I was abroad and why for so long. They also wanted to know about my husband and his whereabouts. Anticipating all sorts of problem, I thought it would be best not to mention anything about my husband's death. I was careful not to get myself into any troubles. So after answering a lot of personal questions, I finally got the required stamp in my passport and was allowed to proceed.

At Customs, everyone's luggage was opened up including mine. After the usual nonsense and irritation, I finally got through the Customs and came out to the arrival hall, where my friends were waiting for me. I had mixed feelings when we drove through the streets. Everything looked the same, but it did not feel the same. The city seemed dirty, and people were dressed in old-fashioned outfits. The mullahs were everywhere. Compared to ten months ago, more buildings were shattered as a result of Iraq's bombings of Tehran.

From the airport, we drove straight to my condominium. My tenant was busy packing when we got there. They also intended to seek asylum in a European country, and long afterwards, I heard from a friend that unfortunately they were arrested by the revolutionary guards at the border. Apparently, they spent some time in prison and were forbidden to leave the country after their release from jail.

The revolutionary guard who wanted to seize my apartment was not completely foreign to me. He was the director of the housing board. In that large building complex, there were a total of 75 large and small condominiums. Back then, he was the chairman of the board who got arrested after the revolution, but no harm came to him once he pledged to cooperate with the revolutionary guards. He took full advantage of his situation forcing many to sell their apartments below the market price. Once only a tenant himself, he had come to own a number of apartments. Now he wanted my apartment, and he was totally unaware of my return to the country.

I went hiding in the bedroom when he came knocking at the door. He had come to ask my tenant when he was going to turn over the apartment's lease contract to him. My tenant, Mr. Karimi, asked him what he thought the owner of the apartment would feel if he were to do that. He responded that since I had sought asylum in Sweden and could not come back to the country, I would not be able to say anything about that. He went further to state that he had the right to confiscate my apartment. Mr. Karimi walked slowly toward the bedroom and asked the director to follow him. He thought he had seen a ghost when he laid eyes on me sitting on a chair in a corner of the bedroom. He was red in the face and with a stutter asked me, "When did you get back? Did you not seek asylum in Sweden?"

I was of course beyond angry at such a turncoat who had gone in cahoots with the regime and the revolutionary guards. I ignored his question and told him, "How dare you confiscating my apartment while I am still the rightful owner?" He was white in the face and could not hide his frustration. He said, "Who wanted to take your apartment? Nobody dares do that so long as I am in charge."

Although he did not manage to take over my apartment, he surely did put a lot of obstacles in my way to sell the place.

Every time I held an open-house in order to sell the apartment, no one showed up. Finally, I got tired and decided to sell through a real-estate agency. I talked with a real-estate agent and set a date when he could come to show the apartment. That day, I waited and waited and he did not show up. The day after, I went to his office to find out why he had not shown up. As soon as I stepped into the office, he accused me of having lied to him. I was puzzled and did not have a clue as to what he meant by that. I told him that I sat at home all day waiting for him and his potential clients. He gave me a strange look and said, "Haven't you sold your apartment?" "Of course not," I replied.

Then, he explained that when he brought his potential clients over, the gate-keeper had refused to let them in, and had told them that the apartment was already sold.

I returned to my apartment fuming. Once at the apartment building, I confronted the gate-keeper. He was very apologetic and told me that he only acted on the orders of the board director.

Then I realized why no one came to any of my open-houses. Based on the gate-keeper's admission, many had come to view the apartment, but he was ordered not to let them in. Unbeknown to us, the director had been around the corner and eavesdropping on the whole conversation. He came out of nowhere and gave the poor man two harsh slaps on the face and called him a liar. The day after, the gate-keeper was fired. I felt really bad for the poor innocent man who had simply been caught in the director's devious plot.

After four months of struggle against a crooked and corrupt person, who extorted 200,000 toman from me, I finally managed to sell my apartment only after he approved of the buyer. Because of him, I also lost money on the sale of the apartment since I had to sell it below its market-price. At the end, I had realized that I had no choice. If I did not want to prolong my stay in Iran, I had to somehow bring that madness to an end. I had enough of living in my so-called homeland, a barbaric and lawless country.

Besides all the troubles I went through to sell my apartment, I got also arrested by the revolutionary guards twice in a matter of four months that I stayed in Iran.

The first incident was over my veil which, apparently, was not appropriately covering all my hair. I was with a friend of mine who was also taken in on the same charges. We were put through hell for few long hours, before we were released in the late afternoon of the same day. Before we were let go, we got plenty of warning while getting punched in the chest as a reminder of who we were dealing with. I still had the bruises on my arms when I came back to Sweden, which served as a memory of my stay in hell that is, my own country.

The next incident occurred a week before my departure from Iran. My friend Shohreh had invited me over to her place. I went to her office and together we headed over to her house. On the way there, she wanted to visit one of her clients at the Sheraton Hotel in Tehran to get a contract signed up and ready for the next business day. It was four o'clock in the afternoon, when we stepped out of the taxi in front of the hotel.

First, we were questioned by revolutionary guards about our business at the hotel. Shohreh explained that she had an appointment with one of the guests there. He followed us to the reception, relayed the story to him and left. The receptionist called the guest's room, and we were told he was on his way downstairs. As soon as he got to the reception, the revolutionary guards approached us.

They divided us up and took each of us into a room for questioning. I only knew what Shohreh had told me, which was very little. I was in reality going to Shohreh's house for a farewell dinner that her mother had arranged for me. Given that I was in my last week of stay in Iran, I was invited to go to a few farewell dinners that week which were thrown by my close friends. Only a handful of people knew that I was back in Iran, while many of my family members and friends did not. In my mind, the less people knew about my stay, the safer I was going to be.

At any rate, the revolutionary guards did not get much information through me since I knew very little myself. However, they got conflicting stories from the other two which made them suspicious. So they decided to take us to the central station for more questioning. Out of panic, I started crying. I told them I was an innocent party that had just been dragged into this mess by accident.

At midnight, they had me sign a document attesting that I had nothing to do with their business. As for the other two, they had to sign a document promising to show up at the central station the next day for questioning. At that moment, the man asked to speak with the revolutionary guards' chief in private. They went out, and when they came back, we were told we were free, but we were to be taken home by the revolutionary guards. I had no idea what made them change their mind, and, frankly, I could not care less so long as I was let go. Later on, I found out that the man had begged the revolutionary guards to let us go since we were innocent. Also, he had promised to make a large donation to the so-called 'Imam's account'.

In the distance, I saw Shohreh's mother and brother who were impatiently waiting for us at the door. Shohreh's mother almost collapsed when she saw us getting off the revolutionary guards' car. She wanted to know what had gone on. I let Shohreh tell the story. She told her mother a watered down version of what had transpired. Her mother blamed her for being stupid as well as careless for putting my life in danger.

Same night, we woke up at the sound of an explosion. I ran out to the hall and saw Shohreh and her family looking out the window. We could see a thick, black smoke and massive fire not too far from where we were. They turned on the radio, but there were not any reports about that explosion on the news. Shohreh's brother went out to see if he could find out any information. When he returned, he told us that two of the neighbours' houses were bombed. More than likely, the people living in those houses had died in the explosion. I was frightened. All I could think about was that I wanted to go back to Sweden and see my children.

When it came time for me to leave Iran, Shohreh was allowed by her family to travel to Turkey with me. Prior to leaving though, I just wanted to walk down the memory lane one last time, and go to those places in and around Tehran where I could re-live those fond memories of a lifetime ago. One of those places was at Karaj dam on Chalus mountainous road. Time spent in those places was the only memorable part of my entire stay during my last trip back home.

Karaj dam

Accompanied by a few friends, Shohreh and I went to the Mehr Abad airport. Shohreh wanted to travel to Turkey as a tourist, and, without her family's knowledge, she had planned to go to another country as a refugee. For me, however, it was to get back to residing in a democratic country and to never coming back to my so-called homeland ever again. Even though I was born there, I felt no affinity with that land anymore.

We said our goodbyes to our friends at the airport and went through the gate. Once again, I had to go through the same rigmarole as before. The opening up of the luggages, the tossing of personal stuff out of the baggage and throwing them on the floor in an aggressive manner. After a long and tormenting wait, my belongings were finally jammed in my suitcases. I could not hold my tongue so I asked the guard what it was that he was hoping to find in my luggage. Ignoring my question, he asked, "What have you got in your fist? Why do you nervously keep looking around?" I was gob smacked by what he said and I responded, "Could you not have asked me that first, before throwing my things on the floor?" I opened my hand and showed him my antibiotic tablets that I was taking due to a sudden toothache I had got during the last couple of days. I also showed him my swollen face and said, "I have a toothache and I am in pain. I need some water to take my pill." He sneered at me and said, "I am not your servant. You should ask your f...g king to fetch water for you!" I realized it was neither the time nor the place to pick an argument with him. All I wanted was to get the heck out of that country and be done with the sick, bloodthirsty people like him.

We checked in our suitcases and went to the passport control to pick up our passports that, as per the standard procedure, we had submitted to the ministry of foreign affairs prior to our departure. After checking the piles of passports, the revolutionary guard informed us that our passports had not been sent back yet. I was clearly worried and wondered why the passports had been kept at the ministry. I suspected that it might have had something to do with the incident at the hotel. Deep down inside, I was paralyzed with fear, but I had to keep a calm demeanour. Finally, he came out with mine but not Shohreh's passport. Shohreh whispered to me to go ahead and leave her there. I told her there was no need since we still had time. The revolutionary guard came back and asked for her identification card. She handed over her driver's license to him and he disappeared. Finally, he came back with her passport. To say that I was relieved would be an understatement. With the time ticking, we ran to the body inspection area, where the female revolutionary guards were. And once we got through dealing with those maniacs, we finally boarded the plane.

### November 1986

To avoid the complications of my last trip to Sweden, this time, I flew to Denmark. From there I flew to Stockholm and via domestic flights, I went to Jönköping. I got off at Axamo Airport, where my children had come to take me home.

The harsh winter had already hit Sweden. There were piles of snow everywhere as we drove from Jönköping airport to Öxnehaga. This time, when I came to that small and run-down apartment, I was painstakingly aware that I would never return to my country ever again. I felt even more depressed than the first time I had arrived in Sweden since now, even that small glimmer of hope to visit my family in Iran did no longer exist.

Within a month from coming home, we were told we could move into a newly renovated apartment as of the turn of the year. One day an angry man came to door asking why we had not moved into the new apartment yet. I asked him how we were going to do that when we did not have the keys. He grabbed a set of keys out of his briefcase and got us to sign for them. He then warned us that we only had 24 hours to get our "shit" out! After that, he turned around and left. I thought it was awful to be so badly mistreated by our own countrymen back in Iran and to be insulted time and again while leaving abroad.

Since we lived a simple and primitive life, we did not have much to pack. Everything was packed and moved from Oxhagsgatan to Kalvhagsgatan in just two hours. A three bedroom apartment on the second floor. Since Reza had moved out to a dormitory in summer, Ali and Iraj shared the bigger bedroom together. Madjid and I took the two smaller bedrooms which were in fact no bigger than a nursery.

### 1987

The uneventful life continued. I carried on with my Swedish course. Ali got a job as a welder in a factory that made parts for Volvo. He worked only a few months there before he went to university. Madjid studied at high school and Iraj at secondary school. Reza sent his application to the Royal Institute of Technology and waited for an answer. My daughter continued her miserable life in Canada alone. Contacts with my friends and family in Iran became less and less frequent as there was not much to talk about.

Before I knew it the month of March was upon us and the Persian New Year was just around the corner. We had a little party with few Swedish friends including, Monika, my Swedish language teacher, in our newly renovated apartment that I had furnished with nice furniture from the store called MIO.

1988, Persian New-Year table 21 March 1987, Persian traditional New-Year meal

Madjid, Iraj, Ali, Reza and I

At the turn of the year, I had registered at an adult education centre to take further Swedish language courses. Marinne Göttlander, one of my Swedish friends who was an adult education teacher, encouraged me to speak at the school's party and talk about my country's history, culture and traditions. I wondered how I could do that given that my Swedish was not that great at the time. Although I always liked challenges, I was a bit hesitant to say yes. Marianne, who had great confidence in me, reassured me that I would do just fine. She helped me collect material from the library so I could write a summary in Swedish, which she also proof-read. That day turned out to be a memorable one for me. Although I was trembling like a leaf, thanks to Marianne's vote of confidence, I managed to do a good job.

1987, my first public speaking at Sofia school in jönköping My Swedish language teacher Monika

In spring of 1987, Reza was accepted at KTH, the Royal Institute of Technology, and subsequently he moved to Stockholm. In fall of 1987, Ali got accepted at the Örebro University and moved to Örebro. The already fragmented family became even more fragmented so that there were only three of us still living together in Jönköping.

Alongside the great kindness shown by many, we also experienced a great deal of racism in Jönköping. They smashed my son's car and mine. Stones were thrown at us in places where no one was around. Profanities were shouted at us from time to time. All I could do was to bear with such offensive behaviours and ask my sons to do the same.

However, one day I came home from school to find my youngest son lying on his stomach on the sofa. While trying to cover half of his face with his hand, he claimed that he had a headache. I questioned him as to why he was hiding his face and insisted that he let me see his face. There were bruises on his face and around his eyes, which he claimed had happened when he had fallen off his bicycle. Since the explanation did not match the type of injuries, I probed further. It turned out that a small group of kids in his school were beating up on all immigrant children. Although the principal and the entire staff were aware of this, they had not done anything about it. That day, they had come to my son's class and asked the teacher to let my son leave the classroom because they wanted to talk to him. The teacher had refused so, they had gone waiting in the after-school recreation centre for my son and his Iraqi friends. As soon as my son and his friends had walked into that place to play, they had closed the door and started punching them and hitting them with wooden bars while yelling at them to go back to their "f'...g" country.

I listened to him while crying the whole time and thinking to myself what kind of hellish life we must live. Was it not enough to have lived under the tyranny of that regime in Iran and flee the country? And now, to have to go through this here, in Sweden, in a free country. That night, I could not get a wink of sleep.

The next day, Ali and I went with Iraj to his school to meet with the school principal. The principal wanted to play down the incident. I asked him to think of the children and their safety. I also said that I would file a police report. So he called my son's teacher to his office to hear her version. Once the principal found out that other children had also been physically assaulted by this group, he decided to call the mother of the ring-leader in that group. Apparently the kid's parents were divorced and both were alcoholics. The mother did not want to come to school, and had stated that she did not care that a foreigner had been beaten up. Frustrated by the mother's attitude, the principal called the police himself. The police wrote a report on the incident and took my son to a medical-examiner. Iraj was put on fifteen-day care. When we got home, I called the newspaper Jönköping Posten that had shown interest in writing about the racist confrontations at my son's school. In the evening we were visited by a reporter and a photo-journalist.

The next day when I saw my son's picture and read the article in Jönköping Posten, I sighed of sadness and thought why we were so hated and not welcomed anywhere, even in a peaceful country like Sweden.

The boy was tried and convicted. He had to pay a fine and do three months of community service. Afterward, he got to calm down a bit and stopped going around beating up innocent kids.

I do not want to be ungrateful, but the authorities do not understand, in many cases, why we 'immigrants' or foreigners fled our countries and came to Sweden.

At least we Iranians had no intention of leaving our country to go abroad in order to receive money and food from someone. Rather, we came to Sweden and chose to live in exile so that we could live and work safely and freely in a peaceful country, away from the oppression of our undemocratic country of Iran.

I struggled hard to convince my case-manager at the social welfare office that I did not want to sit at home and receive social assistance; I did not need it. Instead, I wanted to integrate myself into the society. I wanted to work and learn the language. To me, that was not an unreasonable or complicated request. Yet, she had a hard time understanding me.

I talked eagerly with the employment office agents, but they could not help me find either a suitable job or a meaningful course. My teacher, Monika, suggested I contact Axamo airport or travel agencies in hope of finding a suitable job. Unfortunately, all my efforts were in vain. Then I talked with my Swedish friends like Eva-Lena, Amin's wife. She suggested I get a job in the home-care services. I really did not know what the job entailed, but I showed interest to find out more. So one day we went together to one of their facilities to meet with the person in charge. There, they took care of the day-to-day needs of the mentally challenged. I thanked my friend for her help, but since I could not handle the heavy physical aspect of the job, I had to look elsewhere for a job.

After searching around, I found a temporary night job. I started to work at the Småland Bakery, packaging bread. The work hours were from ten at night to six in the morning. There, I felt like a night-owl in those dark, moist, yeast-smelling, narrow corridors. The only sound in the bakery was that of the machines. I worked there for only two months. Although the job was not at all commensurate with my skills, it did at least help me borrow money from the bank which I used to buy a pizzeria.

Life's irony: the pilot began to bake pizza. Although I was not happy with that, I was proud of myself to stand on my own two feet. That was a prominent characteristic of mine not to ever let anyone else control my life. I wanted to live according to my beliefs and values.

### The pilot who baked pizza

1987, my own pizzeria in Jönköping called Amigo Pizzeria

As cooking has always been one of my main interests, I decided to open a small restaurant. I told a fellow countryman of mine about my idea and he became interested to go into partnership with me on that. We found a small pizza shop on Mellangatan Street in Jönköping, a quiet and peaceful street that did not seem like the right place for a small restaurant, something we realized after the fact.

The price was reasonable for our small economy. The then owner was a strong man from Syria. When we asked about the pizzeria's turnover, he took a wad of cash out of his pocket which he claimed to be his takings for just that day! However, that did not sound plausible since the place was empty of customers and the food seemed old. But we were so inexperienced that we took his statements at face value without further inspections. The owner's name was Joseph, and he promised to stay ten days after the sale of the pizzeria to teach us a bit about the job.

My partner, who turned out to be a lazy and unreliable person, took full advantage of me. Only a few days after our purchase, he left me to finish the handover with the former owner. He went to Gothenburg with his Swedish partner for a week. His Swedish partner was a very unfriendly woman who was rude, grumpy, lazy, and disrespectful. I could not care less about their private life, but as far as the business was concerned, I wanted her to stay completely out of it.

During the first few days, Joseph seemed kind and honourable. However as soon as he found out that my partner was away, he started to hit on me even though he was a married man with ten children. He kept badgering me about the whereabouts of my husband, which I lied about and said he was in Iran waiting to get his visa. He was definitely getting on my nerves and I was truly becoming scared of him. He did not leave me in peace to the point that one day, I picked up the phone to call the police and ask for help. He then had to give up and leave the store. But before leaving, he threatened that he would get back at me for rejecting him. He was furious since, as he claimed, no woman had ever rejected him before. After he left, I was shaking like a leaf. I called my son Madjid and asked him to come to the restaurant.

Iraj and Madjid helped me in my pizzeria.

As for the financial side of the business, the restaurant was not generating enough income to support two families. To make matters worse, on top of taking food home with him, my dishonest partner was also taking money from the till for his personal use. He hardly spent any time working at the restaurant as he left on yet another trip, this time to London. After three months, I had enough of him and his work ethics so, I offered to buy him out. I told him that it was not fair that my sons and I were working non-stop when he was not. On top of that, his partner was not only useless as far as helping out in the business was concerned, she was also constantly meddling and interfering. He agreed to sell his share provided he got 20,000 kronor in profit for his three-month investment. I had no choice but to agree if I wanted to get rid of a dead weight.

After that, I became the sole owner. The stove and the fridge were old so, I had to pay a lot to get them fixed. I sought loan from SE Bank to replace the two appliances but I was turned down. According to the bank, the former owner had shortly prior to the selling of the place received 100,000 kronor toward the purchase of the very same items. When I talked to my accountant, who was the previous owner's accountant as well, it turned out that he knew about that loan, but was not aware where the new fridge and stove went to.

One day my Swedish friends Ruth and Ingrid came to the restaurant to buy pizza. I told them about my unsuccessful attempt at getting a loan from the bank. Ruth promised to help me. The day after, Ruth phoned and told me that she had made an appointment for me with SE-bank's chief executive Åke.

I went to the appointment and explained the situation. After hearing my story, he wrote a recommendation letter to the bank manager, Per, to grant me a loan for 50,000 kronor. The bank manager was shocked when I showed up with the approval for the loan since he had thought it would be impossible to get that loan especially, as he put it, for an "immigrant." I purchased the new stove and fridge hoping that it would help in raising the revenue of the restaurant.

The job was frustrating, exhausting and back-breaking. I started to have pain in my shoulders and back. I sought medical care for the pain, and I was told that it was a psychological and not a physical problem. The physician believed that most people who leave their countries, family, and friends suffer from the same condition! As a result, they had me meet with a psychotherapist which, not surprisingly, could not cure my illness.

I commuted all the time between work, home, health center and, ultimately, a physiotherapist.

I had started to regret my choice of running a business that was physically very demanding and more than I could handle. It certainly was not easy to make dough out of 30 pounds of flour every day. Then, to take it out of the machine, roll it into small balls, and bake pizza and bread.

As if I did not have enough problems, I was also constantly harassed by every pizzeria owner in that city. On top of all that, I was also getting regular visits by the health board inspector who was there every month to go through everything with a fine-tooth-comb, even though she knew there were no reasons for it. What surprised me was that many years later when I worked as a cashier in Obs restaurant in Fittja in Stockholm, not once did I see anyone from the health board drop by for an inspection.

In any event, running that business had impacted my whole life. I used to leave home every day at eight o'clock in the morning and come home at midnight. I could not devote a lot of time to my children and had absolutely no time to socialize. I could not even make any arrangements for the Persian New Year as I had done in previous years. Thanks to my great Swedish friend Else Mellegård, who threw a small party at her home and invited my kids and I over, we got to celebrate the New Year after all.

Else, Mia and Anna Mellegård The New Year party at Mellegård's house

After nine months of running that small pizzeria by myself and the occasional help from my sons who would come by after school, I decided to sell it and move to Stockholm. Once the business was sold, I felt a sense of relief and freedom.

### The move to Stockholm, 1988

Shortly before selling the pizzeria, my son Madjid who was 19 at the time went to Stockholm in order to buy an apartment for himself. He found a townhouse in Tumba and since he could not qualify for a loan on his own, he was advised by the real-estate agent to have someone else go on the deal, and, logically, who better than his mother. Without consultation with me, the agent had gone ahead and done up the purchase contract in both our names. When Madjid had signed the contract and put a down-payment toward the purchase of the house, he phoned me and congratulated me for partial ownership of the house. I was floored and asked him what he meant and what house. All I wanted was to sell my pizzeria and alleviate the financial burden that I had created for myself through the business loan. Surely, the last thing I wanted was to have an even bigger financial commitment by buying a townhouse and taking out a huge mortgage.

Even though, I was not present to sign the contract, there was nothing I could do about it. Surely, it must have been a fraudulent act committed by the real-estate agent. She had got a young, inexperienced, first-time buyer and she had taken full advantage of that. She had also misled my son to believe that our monthly mortgage payment would work out to just 1500 kronor, and our only other monthly expense would be, for the lack of a better term, a sort of a condominium fee which would have still worked out to be lower than what we were paying in rent for our apartment in Jönköping.

In April, we went to Stockholm to close a house that I had never seen before. That day when for the first time I saw the house, I felt sick to my stomach since the house was old and in need of major repairs and renovations. We had simply been ripped off and totally taken by the agent who fraudulently added my name to the contract and sold us a dilapidated and overpriced house which was also too far off the beaten path.

In May, the movers packed and loaded our stuff. We said goodbye to all our wonderful and kind friends and headed to Stockholm. Before our move, I had applied to the teacher's college at the University of Stockholm and the Gothenburg University, but unfortunately I did not get in. Also, through the local employment centre, I had checked for employment opportunities in Stockholm. I drove back and forth between Jönköping and Stockholm many times to attend job interviews, for some of which I got turned down on the account of the distance between my new residence and the potential place of employment.

Out of pure desperation, I got a job in the Avenyn restaurant in Södertälje as a dish-washer. What else could I do? With a huge mortgage payment and its interest hanging over my head, I had to put my dreams on hold, live with disappointments in life, and do what I had to do. At the time of my interview, I was told that there would be two of us working there. I showed up to work and without even getting an apron or gloves, I had to start. I also found out later that the second person that he had talked about did not work daytime rather the night shifts. I had to work alone with only a half-an-hour lunchtime and fifteen minutes of coffee break. I was exhausted, tired, and soaked in water from head to toe.

After work, I stood frightfully at the train station platform in Södertälje facing a bunch of racists with their shaved heads, khaki jackets, and black boots. They stomped with rage while screaming "Out with you, f'...g shit. You are not welcome here!" There were a lot of us foreigners at the station waiting for the train. There were many Swedes there too, but not a peep out of them. I assumed that they were either afraid to confront them, or happy that we foreigners were told what they wanted to tell us but could not.

In any event, the weather was extremely cold and windy when I left work. By the time I got home, I was frozen. That night, I kept coughing and sneezing and could not sleep. In the morning, I called in sick. The outrageous response I got was, "Your health is not important to me. I do not care about your health, you f'...g foreigner! What am I to do without a dishwasher?! If you don't show up today, I will fire you." Exasperated, I told him he can do whatever the hell he wanted to do, that I was sick and was running a fever.

He hung up without saying anything more. After a visit to the doctor, it turned out that I had suffered from pneumonia. I received no pay for my work at that restaurant. Even though it was only for a day, it meant that I had pretty much worked for free there.

No job and the bills kept coming. The first month after our move, I nearly had a heart attack when I received a 20, 000 kronor bill from the bank, which I had no idea what that was for. I rushed to the bank and to my absolute horror, I found out that it was for our monthly mortgage payment, which according to that crooked real-estate agent was to be 1500 kronor per month. The payment had to be made by its due date, or we would have been charged an interest on top of that. My only means of paying the bill and avoiding any penalties or interest was to sell a piece of my gold. At that point, there was no turning back for us and I could not risk losing everything we had built over the last three years.

### Cashier at Obs restaurant in Fittja

Obs trip to Mariehamn with colleagues Siv, Siv, Anna and Moud

When I came to Obs restaurant to meet the chef, I had no idea how miserable and degrading of a life was awaiting me.

The chef, Ted Berglund, was a heavy-set man with oily, long, pepper-and-salt colour hair. In the absence of the restaurant manager, Erik, he was in charge and he went ahead and hired me as a cashier on the spot. The job was not easy as it came with a series of secondary duties. But the hardest part of the job was the constant fight with Erik who did not want any immigrants working there.

After a long time of working there, one day I felt a chest pain and had difficulty breathing. So I asked Erik if I could go home. He told me callously that I could quit and go home if I wanted. He knew what I had gone through in life and he was adamant to make life harder for me. By creating a stressful environment at work, he was hoping that I would give up and leave myself. It was in the same afternoon that I had asked to go home due to my physical condition that I passed out while standing behind the cash-register and fell to the ground. Customers shouted for help, and when Ted saw me lying unconscious on the floor, he called for an ambulance. I was transferred to the Södertälje hospital, where I was kept under observation for twenty-four hours and went through all sort of medical examinations including an electrocardiogram (ECG). Once I came to, the doctor recommended that I stay home for a week and recover. All Erik had to say when he saw me after the incident was, "You survived?!"

While Erik was openly hostile toward me and my son Madjid, who also ended up working there for a while, many regular customers and many of my colleagues were on very good terms with me and liked me very much. In particular, our chef, Ted, who was a very decent man and a huge supporter of mine. He knew of my country and was aware of Iranians abhorrence toward receiving welfare. He had traveled to the Persian Gulf and had fond memories of his trip in that area. On the whole, he was critical of Erik, not just for the way he treated me, but also for his work ethics and leadership.

Erik had massive personal problems. His wife was considerably older, better educated and wealthier than him. They had a son together who, while working in the kitchen, was sent there by his mother to spy on Erik. His wife was suspicious of Erik, and it was embarrassing for him that everyone at work knew about his private affairs. Therefore, he was so nasty to everyone and, definitely, disliked by everyone as well. I was, however, the only one who would stand up to him when everyone else would just talk behind his back.

The labour union was not very helpful either. As I once pointed out to the union representative, the union was there to defend the employees who were paying union fees and not the employer. But unfortunately, the union was no help to us.

Erik and I were like cat and mouse. He did not want me there. He used to tell me to get a job somewhere else since he really did not want to have foreigners at his workplace. I used to answer him that maybe he should change his job because I enjoyed working there and the people I worked with.

Many times during my employment at Obs restaurant, I was rushed by ambulance to the Södertälje hospital either from work or home. The doctors could not find any problems with my heart and yet, I was in massive pain.

Ultimately after an angiograph at Karolinska hospital, I was diagnosed with gastritis. I had to go through gastroscopy on three separate occasions and was put on medication for life.

But I had to continue to work in such hellish environment that Erik had created for me and even pull overtime just to make ends meet. With the financial burden of paying off the mortgage, I had no choice but to carry on. At the time, I lived with Madjid, who also worked at the same place, and Iraj who was at high school.

As for our new living environment, the neighbours tried to avoid us as much as they could. Every time I came driving down the street, they ran inside their home or tried to hide behind the tall bushes. Out of all the neighbours who went out of their way to ignore us, there was only Egon, a 70-year-old active and creative man, who was interested to make contact with us. He told us that he found us to be "civilized people," which while a clearly degrading statement, I suppose at the same time, one had to take it as a compliment for not being considered anything but! We invited him over to all our parties to which he came gladly. He also invited us to his home and showed us a three storey piano that he had built himself. He played music for us and showed pictures of his family. On the whole, he was a pleasant and knowledgeable man. His daughter, however, who lived in the same house with her partner, was prejudiced against us and did not take kindly to us. She had also warned his father to be careful with us and around us. Such was life in a Swedish residential area for us. I had noticed from the beginning that it was by no means easy to integrate into a foreign society, or to be accepted by people in that society.

### Meeting my daughter, 1990

After five years of longing and living apart in different parts of the world, my daughter and I finally got to be reunited. Our emotional reunion accompanied by tears of joy and laughter was so moving that it affected all her friends who were there at Toronto's Pearson airport.

I spent a long time with her in Canada. Many nights we stayed up and talked about anything and everything. Indeed, we had a lot of catching up to do. After a while, my son Ali also came over for a visit and then, we were three people of a fragmented family who gathered under one roof.

We naturally wanted to take her to Sweden with us. We were obviously happy when she was granted a three-month visa to come to Sweden. All together then, we flew to Sweden. The small family was, at last, united even if that was only for a short little while.

It was not going to be easy for us to get separated again; I would have very much liked to keep her there. Therefore, we investigated the possibility of getting a residence permit for her in Sweden on the grounds of family ties and subsequently, made an application in that regard to the Immigration Board in Sweden. While she waited for an answer from the Immigration Board, she commenced her studies at an adult education centre.

Despite the uncertainty and anxiety surrounding the decision, my life began to slowly but surely head in the right direction.

In those five years that I had been in Sweden, I had traveled across that beautiful country with my children. As well, we had taken trips to Norway and Denmark. I also took a few trips abroad by myself, but I always felt a void while traveling. However with all my children together, I found our visits to different parts of Sweden to be more enjoyable. She fell in love with Sweden's beautiful landscapes which was quite different from those of Iran or Canada. We also covered the entire city and province of Stockholm. She wanted to get to know the beautiful Stockholm, or otherwise known as Scandinavia's Venice.

We went to as many cities as we could. We went to Sundsvall which is about four hundred kilometres north of Stockholm. Then we went to Gothenburg, Sweden's second largest city and the Nordic region's fifth largest urban area. The city lies on the west coast by the Göta River, and because of its urban planning, the city is referred to as New Amsterdam by the Dutch. Last but not least, we visited Malmo, Sweden's third largest city located in the south-western part of Skåne.

Our trips to Denmark and Norway were also enriching and entertaining for my daughter and for us too. My friends were more optimistic about my daughter's case than myself. They comforted me all the time with positive thoughts and words. Yet, there was an uneasy feeling in me that I could not shake off.

### The rise, fall, and comeback, 1990

Despite all the misery I went through in a tumultuous life, I could not forget the air and its glory. I wanted to fly as it was an undying passion of mine. Therefore, I registered at Bromma flight school. Although it was costly to pursue such high ambition and to satisfy the burning desire, I could not let go. I had hoped that it might lead me to my dream job.

My grand effort was sadly futile however. I was unable to secure a job as a pilot or even any other job in that field. Dismayed, I decided to forget the glory of the skies, clip my wings and continue working on earth as a cashier at Obs restaurant.

Then I decided to partake in the teacher's college entrance examination. I did very well in all sections of the test with the exception of the Swedish language. In order to better prepare myself for the next round of tests, I took a Swedish course to improve my language skills. That was an evening course that clashed with my working hours. Every other day, I had to work an evening shift and I could therefore, not make it to all my classes. The teacher suggested that I change my working hours if I wanted to pass the final test.

But insofar as my spiteful boss Erik was concerned, I only had two choices: let go of the course or the job. He was absolutely unaccommodating and would not change my work schedule. I therefore, realized that I had no options but to let go of my course, hence the next best career.

### 1991

This was an eventful year in my life, full of lull, joy, pain, sudden illnesses, and job loss.

I, unfortunately, suffered from a slipped disc. I found the labour union to be of little help, and the Norwegian physician who worked for the company inattentive. He was of the opinion that I was pretending to have a bad back to get out of work. During a long meeting with Obs managers including the human-resources manager, he claimed that my illness was trivial and was due to my sluggishness. With those words, I burst into tears. How unfair could a doctor be?! If I was a lazy person, I would have never started working from the very first year I came to Sweden. I had lived a life of high stress and grave injustice in my own country, but then and there in Sweden, I did not expect to go through the same.

Besides some minor treatments, I was sent to the Huddinge hospital to see an orthopaedic surgeon who blatantly refused to send me for any tests such as MRI to avoid any costs to the taxpayers. I just looked at him and asked, "Do I not count as a part of this society? I also live and work here and I also pay taxes here!" The lack of care on everyone's part, as well as the open hostility from every front, made my health deteriorate further both physically and emotionally.

Given the circumstances, I came to a decision in that, I had to sell the house and get rid of a huge financial burden which had forced me to work more than fifty hours a week. We would then look for an apartment to live in, which could not be that difficult to do.

Madjid, who was by then twenty-two years old and had a permanent job, could not rent an apartment because he was alone. Instead he bought a one-bedroom apartment for himself in Hallunda and left home. With much difficulty and with the help of the Immigrant Services Bureau, I managed to rent a decrepit apartment in Alby in a densely packed immigrant area. Aside from the pathetic state of the apartment both the interior and its exterior, it came with the added bonus of being located in an unsafe area. Burglary in the apartments and the storage areas were everyday and common occurrences. But to me, nothing was important anymore. I had no more energy or desire to fix an apartment that needed massive work. And I had long lost my great hopes of having a life in Sweden.

My health had worsened by every passing day. Besides the chest pain, gastritis, neck and shoulder problems, I had additionally come down with disc hernia. I could not carry on working overtime any more, year in and year out and at all hours of the day, just to live in a townhouse. So, I had to ignore everything that was happening around me.

The same year, Ali graduated from the university and moved back home from Örebro. He had also got a job offer at Rinkeby district office as the district data-coordinator, which took him three hours of commuting each day to and from work. After a few months of commuting, he decided to buy a two-bedroom apartment closer to his job in Husby. Husby is a neighbourhood in the western suburb of Stockholm.

### 1992

We moved with Ali to the new area without knowing that Husby was by no means any better than Alby, not one bit.

Husby was first a Swedish area, but, sadly, the Swedes moved out just as the immigrants moved into the area. It felt more like I was living in a ghetto than in Stockholm or Sweden. Still to this day, both Alby and Husby suffer from a bad reputation among the Swedish people.

Shortly after our move to Husby, my youngest son, Iraj, asked to move out due to the long distance between our home and his school. He was, at the time, studying at the adult education centre in Huddinge. So he went ahead and rented a second hand apartment in Huddinge and moved there. I was also required to commute a long distance between home and work.

Life carried on with all its hardship. There was no change in my situation at work. I received absolutely no help from work in getting rehabilitated. All the medical care afforded to me by both the Norwegian doctor and another company doctor was a bunch of painkillers which did not do anything for my pain rather caused many side-effects. Therefore, I took a leave without pay from work for a period of six months and went with my daughter to Canada for a real treatment of my medical conditions.

After six months, when we came back to Sweden from Canada, I had a thick medical file full of medical reports from different examinations, MRIs, and tests from different specialists for my chronic pain. A neurologist in Canada confirmed all the neck and back problems that I had been suffering from all along. What was terribly sad for me was that the doctors in Sweden had not believed me and worse, they had instead accused me of being lazy. The massive out-of-pocket expenses that I had incurred were truly unnecessary if only I had received the treatments I needed in Sweden. Why had I been forced to go to another country when the treatments were readily available in Sweden? A country with a world-wide reputation for its medical care that at times, is the envy of many in other countries.

I was due for surgery in Canada when I received news about my job in Sweden. I was ordered back to work immediately; otherwise, I was going to be fired. My son Ali contacted my boss Erik and informed him of my upcoming surgery in Canada; as well, he provided him with the necessary doctor's notes. He asked Erik to give me at least two months leave of absence so that I could undergo the operation but he blatantly refused.

I had to cancel the surgery and come back to Sweden all due to their xenophobia which apparently had no boundaries. The minute I got back, I was again subjected to the same obnoxious behaviour from my boss Erik, and the questionable treatment of the company doctors. According to the rumours that were going around, Erik wanted to force me to quit, and thus forfeiting all my benefits.

Although the social insurance officer in Tumba had approved sending me on a lengthy rehabilitation programme, the female officer in Kista, who was Finnish, did not want to carry out the decision. She told me, in no uncertain terms, that she would absolutely never agree with the decision to send me to the Riks hospital for further medical examinations or rehabilitation.

As per the recommendations of the company's doctors, I kept being transferred from one job to another over and over again. They simply refused to address my medical conditions, a negligence which left me with a lifetime of health problems.

To top it all off, my daughter also got a shocking response from the Immigration Board, which left us all bewildered. My sons and I wrote letters to provide the Immigration Board with a guarantee that her residence in Sweden would never cost the state a penny. She was not a refugee and did not need any social benefits. We just wanted my daughter, who was the last and only family member who lived alone in a foreign country, to reunite with her family.

But the decision stood. After two years of waiting in limbo and paying high legal fees, which we had to pay ourselves, her application was denied on the grounds that she was not a minor and she lived in a safe country.

There was nothing we could do, not even appeal the decision. She had to immediately leave the country, or she would have been removed by the police. The outcome of her case was the last blow to the already fragile state of my health. How could the authorities be so cruel and callous? The family bonds should have no age limits. Why did it matter that she was of age? She was a young girl who lived alone and far away from her family. It was not feasible to travel to and from Canada whenever and as many times as one desired. Aside from the long distance between the two countries, traveling back and forth was also costly.

No one gave any consideration to the fact that my family and I stood on our own feet and were not welfare recipients. From my point of view, it was a strange phenomenon that the Immigration Board was granting residency to those who wanted to sit at home and collect welfare. And yet in my daughter's case, who wanted to study and become a productive member of the Swedish society, they rejected her application!

She was required to leave the country at once. She had to go back and start building her life from scratch. Before coming to Sweden and applying for a residence permit, she was a university student in Canada. She wanted to be a doctor. She interrupted her studies at the university there in the hope of continuing her education in Sweden. Having lost a lot of time and money, she left with a broken heart.

### 1993

The life that had become too grim started to lighten up a bit when my daughter called to let us know that he had joined the Canadian Forces. Not too long thereafter, she also met her future husband, Daimian, whom we met shortly after they had got engaged. Their plan was to get married the following year in Toronto. It was an enormous relief for me to know that she was no longer alone, a worry that had occupied my mind all those years.

At the same time, Ali also got engaged to be married to a beautiful Iranian girl called Faryal who lived in Iran. Her father and one of her sisters lived in Sweden but the rest of her family were in Iran.

It was interesting how Ali and Faryal came to know each other. I was always interested in learning a musical instrument since I was a kid. On a number of occasions, I had even tried my hand at learning to play piano, guitar or even singing but to no avail. While in Sweden, I decided to give it one more try and this time, learn how to play a Persian musical instrument called lute (in Farsi: Setar). After a number of training sessions, I finally admitted to myself that I was a better listener than performer. But while on training, I met Faryal's father who is a musician. He knew of Ali who is also a musician and plays various musical instruments including Persian instruments. In our conversations, I got to know of his daughter and saw a picture of her; a beautiful and lovely girl. Since Ali wanted to settle down, I happened to mention to him about Faryal. Ali asked Faryal's father for her hand in marriage and the father approved. As of that point, Ali and Faryal were in touch with each other constantly. Once they decided to get engaged, we arranged an engagement party in her absence in Sweden.

Ali and Faryal planned to meet in Turkey to get married. Ali and I flew to Istanbul from Sweden, and Faryal, her mother, her aunt, and her aunt's daughter traveled to Istanbul from Iran. Ali rented an apartment in Istanbul for the duration of our stay. Since they had arrived before us, we met everyone except for Faryal when we walked into the apartment. As she told us later, she had been hiding so she could take a peek at her future husband before coming forward. They were both delighted to see each other for the first time in the flesh rather than through pictures. There was love in the air from the very first moment.

In early August 1993, they tied the knot. A small wedding party was organized that evening at the Strand restaurant in Istanbul with the help of our Turkish friends. A few days after getting married, Faryal returned to Iran with her family in the hope of being reunited with Ali within a short period of time. We had anticipated that it would take no more than two months before Faryal would receive her visa to come to Sweden. However, we were sadly mistaken.

Consequently, once back from Turkey, I started the process of moving out of Ali's apartment. My plan was to be out of Ali's place before his wife's arrival in a couple of months. I rented a very small bachelor apartment from SB housing association in a crumbling mid-rise building that was already slated for demolition. The building also housed a geriatric care unit on the ground floor. The building entrance was the same for both those at the care unit and the apartment tenants, which was very problematic for all concerned. Furthermore, the tenants were often disturbed at night by the noise in the corridors or mistaken knocks on their doors by patients who were looking for the care unit's personnel.

Gradually, the second floor of the building also became a non-residential floor as it turned into a medical center. Concurrently with that transformation, the third floor got earmarked to house the mentally challenged patients from the Beckomberga hospital. And the fourth floor became designated as a retirement living area.

Given the timeframe within which Faryal was to be granted her visa, I pretty much settled on whatever kind of place I could find. Little we knew, it was going to take until mid-December 1994 before Faryal could come to Sweden. Her visa was held up on the account of his father's status in Sweden, who had got a deportation order. Ali had to write numerous letters to the Swedish Migration Board to attest that his marriage to Faryal was not a sham. After much correspondence surrounding his wife's case, Ali was called in for a police interview in Linköping.

On a cold and snowy winter day, he headed out early in the morning to show up on time at the interview. The person conducting the interview had given him a lot of hard time right from the beginning. She had continuously asked him about the whereabouts of Faryal's father instead of keeping to the intent of the interview. Ali had, time and again, indicated to her that he had not been called in for an interrogation with regard to some other matter rather for an interview regarding the status of his wife. Relentlessly, however, she had continued with her line of questioning and at one point, she had even gone as far as accusing Ali of having got paid to bring Faryal to Sweden. Failing that, she had contended that Ali must have been deceived by Faryal's father to get another member of his family to Sweden. Having heard enough, Ali had got up and left the interview in pure frustration and disgust.

With no end in sight for a speedy resolution to Faryal's case, we had to redirect our attention to her father's situation. Ali and I decided to get involved in the father's case for the sole purpose of expediting Faryal's visa. I acted as an interpreter and personal assistance for Faryal's father and devoted a great deal of my time and energy to secure a positive outcome. All my efforts in that regard were for the sake of my son's happiness since his life had been turned upside down. Ultimately after years of uncertainty, Faryal's father was granted residency permit in October 1994. Both families were relieved particularly, Ali and Faryal since not too long after that, Faryal's file was processed.

At the wedding reception in September 1995, there were over a hundred invited guests who were all excited for the couple. Love, which has only grown stronger with every passing year, had won at the end.

September 1995, Ali and Faryal's wedding

Picture taken by Atelier Aline, Alireza Nehzati

### 1994

After two long and taxing years of struggling against the social insurance office, I was finally sent to the National Insurance Administration hospital in Nynäshamn for further medical evaluation in 1994.

I was there for six weeks. I met with the chief medical doctor, social worker, psychologist and physiotherapist one by one. Additionally, I was given different tasks to perform such as needlework, crafts, making leather bags, and so on. It was clear that the intention was not to address my medical issues rather to find a new type of employment for me. At the hospital administration office, I was told that the social insurance officer had not forwarded my medical records to them. She had instead sent a letter with her own personal opinions to the effect that my problems were only financial and family related and not chronic medical issues.

I was flabbergasted and angry at that official's conduct who was an irresponsible and hostile Finnish woman. She had an entire copy of my medical record yet, she did not even have the decency to at least forward the significant reports from my record along with her biased opinion. So I asked permission to go home to bring a copy of my medical journal to the hospital.

I saw how shocked the chief medical doctor and the social worker were when they saw the stack of medical reports in my file, and read the recommendations of the Canadian and Swedish doctors that I should be sent for rehabilitation. Their attitude was changed at once when they read my journal and realized that I was not faking my chronic pain.

At that point, I was sent for proper medical tests and started to receive the necessary treatments. Although those six weeks were pure torture for me, I came out with a solid confirmation by the medical staff that I could not continue to work in my physical condition. As per their recommendation, I was to be put on indefinite sick leave.

Since then, I was completely bedridden for four years. Even to this date, I am seen regularly by specialists, neurologists, orthopaedic surgeons, internal physicians, physiotherapists, and so forth.

I think that, if they had believed in me and my chronic pain from the beginning, there would have been no need for me to go through so much, or take 25 strong painkillers a day with all their side-effects.

### The passing of my father, 1994

After six weeks, I left the hospital and went home. My kids called to say they were going to come over for a visit that Friday after work. During my six-week stay at the hospital, they had come to visit almost every other day. I had also received many calls from friends, as well as my daughter who was worried about me.

On Friday morning, before my kids came, I got a letter from my brother in Iran. A surprising and confusing letter for me. I found it strange; my brother and I always talked on the phone instead of sending each other letters. I was afraid that something awful must have happened to my parents that prompted him to send me a letter. With my heart pounding, I opened the letter. I had got the news I had dreaded the most in that, my father had passed away a month earlier. Since he did not want to give me such horrible news over the phone, he had called my children instead at the time it had happened. He therefore wondered why it had taken me so long to pick up the phone and call my mother in a time like that.

The news of his passing was devastating for me and I was hurting beyond belief. I had not seen him in nine years that I have lived in exile. My siblings and their children had the privilege of being around him all the time; something my children and I did not have. During all the phone conversations I had with my father in those nine years, the only thing he wanted to know all the time was when he could see me and my children, something which was impossible. And at that point then, all my hopes were dashed. His loss was to be a lifelong grief to be felt deep down in my heart.

My father was my biggest idol. He taught me to be proud of myself in everything I do. He also taught me to stand on my own two feet. He always told me to have respect for those who respected me; to be kind to those who were kind toward me; to watch out for those who wanted to hurt me; to be strong and to never show my weaknesses to others. I was taught to assert myself and stand my grounds; never to turn my back on those in need; to smile since it does not cost anything to be friendly toward others; and to be kind to neighbours since they are closer than one's family. He used to say that, "You get what you give."

Such was my father. Besides teaching me about life, he also taught me about art and the love of literature. I remember when he used to read us poems late at nights and tell us stories when we were kids. Now he was gone forever. I could not but cry over the loss of my father; I was heartbroken.

In the afternoon when my kids came, they wondered why my eyes were red and puffy. Ali asked me if I had a cold, or if I had cried. My only answer to him was, "You know very well why I have cried." He wondered how I knew, so, I showed him the letter. I appreciated that my kids wanted to come and tell me an awful news like that in person. But as I told them, we had lost many near and dear ones: my husband, my uncle, my aunt, and now my father. We should never forget them, but we have to carry on living and taking care of those around us.

### 1995

That year Reza graduated from KTH University and became a civil engineer.

Unfortunately, he could not get a job in Sweden. He sent countless applications to companies throughout Sweden to no avail. He also had to move out of the dormitory and move back with me in my bachelor apartment, which I ultimately moved out of in October 1995 due to massive chaos in that building.

The worst thing was that he was advised by the employment office to apply for social assistance. He had studied six years at the Royal Institute of Technology, and was a highly educated, young man, with high ambitions and expectations. It was unfathomable for him to even think of social services. After all, if he wanted to collect welfare, he could have skipped studying at KTH.

Fortunately, with the help of Ali's boss, Reza got a temporary job in Skarpnäcks municipality as a data-coordinator, which was not a job in his field of studies, but it was still better than nothing. He worked there for nine months and then he was unemployed once again.

In 1990, Reza had met an oriental girl who was a guest student in Stockholm. They had fallen in love, and after a year, they had got engaged in Sweden. Reza applied to get her a residence permit but was not successful. According to the policies, she had to go back to her country and submit an application for residence permit from there. In the interim, her student visa also expired and she had to leave Sweden. Since her family lived in the United States and she had no family back in her native land, she went to her family in the United States, waiting to meet Reza there and get married.

When Reza became unemployed, he decided to move to Canada. He applied for a residence permit there and was approved. He moved to Canada, and after a short time, his fiancée also got her residence permit and moved to Canada. Shortly thereafter, they got married and settled down in Canada.

### Love came knocking on the door

In 1996, I met a fellow countryman through mutual friends, and before we knew it love began to blossom between us. Despite our disagreements and the differences in our political views, we decided to live under one roof. I was glad that my loneliness was about to come to an end. I thought, it was great to have finally found someone with whom I was willing to live and share my joys and sorrows.

However, just as fast as we had fallen in love, we fell out of love. We tended to get into heated discussions over politics in Iran. As an adherent to the communist ideology, he was pro Khomeini and anti Shah. That was rather paradoxical in and off itself that a communist who did not believe in any religion would become a staunch supporter of a fundamentalist.

The ideological gap between us created a major problem in our relationship. Moreover, he wanted to live like a traditional Iranian man in that, he wanted to have control over everything we did. He wanted to be served and not do anything around the house. All he wanted to do was to sit in front of the TV and relax. I was also upset that he forced me to get involved in a protest against the regime in the aftermath of which, I got a threatening letter in the mail that someone wanted to kill me. I reported the incident to the police, but there was not much they could do. He also had to deal with issues from his previous marriage that affected our life.

After eleven months of living with a man whom I liked and hated at the same time, we separated. I finally had enough of the madness and told him to take his Mao and Stalin books and leave me in peace. I did not want to live with an unethical and irrational person under the same roof. While it was not fun for me to live alone again, I felt it was better to be alone than to be constantly bothered by nonsense arguments.

At any rate, I had wasted four years of my life living a very dull and passive life. Except for going to my medical appointments and the pharmacy, I did not get to go anywhere or see anyone. I was unfortunately hit by osteoarthritis and fibromyalgia as well, which made me more limited.

### 1998

The hard winter came and my only companions were pain and loneliness. I was tired of a life without inspiration. I was equally tired of living in an area that was in poor conditions. I had called the police numerous times regarding trespassers who used to sneak into the building and sleep under the staircase. They were mostly alcoholics or drug-addicts who not only posed a danger to the safety of the tenants, they also made a mess in the building by urinating all over the place. I also had to contact the police when a few times, the burglars were trying to break into my apartment in the middle of the night. There was garbage everywhere, and the stench in the whole area that used to drift into the apartments was unbearable.

I had contacted and even met with the local politicians, authorities, and the building manager for years, but I had got nowhere. I did not feel like I was living in Sweden. Rights and privileges were concepts one could only dream of in the ghetto of Husby.

I lived in Husby for fifteen years and saw that each time an immigrant moved in, a Swede moved out. Eventually the area became a mostly immigrant area. Although Husby is within a stone throw from Kista, the differences between them is like night and day.

When I talked to the local politicians, who themselves lived in other municipalities, I found out that they did not share my sentiments about the area. It was extremely annoying to get no real help from the responsible politicians. Sometimes I would even ask them why they did not move to the area if they believed that there was nothing wrong with the area. I often pointed out that the security in that area was rather troublesome particularly, in the evenings and at nights to the point that people dared not come out of their homes.

I carried on living under those horrible conditions while at the same time, suffering from poor health. Despite my physical condition, however, I did not want to sit, do nothing, and just feel sorry for myself. So, I eventually came up with an idea. I had written a collection of poems nine years prior to the revolution in Iran, but I never got around to publish them. So, I thought to myself why not get them published in Sweden. So, I took my time to polish off the rough draft that I had and took them to a printer.

That is how a new chapter of my life begun as a poet and an author.

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### A new chapter in my life story, 1999

The month of April breathed a new life in me and I was truly reborn. It was in 1999 that my first book called Love's echo comprised of small short stories, prose and poems was published in Persian.

Then I contacted Karin von Ruth, the Culture Secretary, to present my book to her. She was and still is one of my greatest mentors and best sources of inspiration. She has been a good, loyal, and close friend of mine for all time. Although the book was in Persian, which Karin could not understand, she was delighted for me. She immediately called the local newspaper Mitt i Kista and arranged an interview for me.

Mitt i Kista interview Karin Von Routh, I, Anne Lee Filipson (librarian), Ingrid (library staff)

In addition, she arranged a book-release party for me at the Husby library. Present at the party were also my sons Ali, Madjid, and Iraj, and my daughter-in-law Faryal to congratulate me on my accomplishment and share my happiness. I was thrilled with the result of my work; an achievement that changed my life forever.

I was even more pleased when, as a show of support, my son Ali offered to play Persian music at my party that evening. That marked the beginning of our collaboration in numerous cultural events.

Everything changed. After fourteen years of living in Sweden, I had found meaning in my life again. I had gone from packaging bread at Småland bakery in Jönköping, to washing dishes at the Avenyn restaurant in Södertälje, to being a cashier at Obs restaurant in Fittja, to then becoming an established author. Hallelujah . . . I felt wonderful. I had reinvented myself and in part, thanks to Karin who valued what I had done. Karin not only helped me, she helped many skilled immigrants who lived in the immigrant suburb of Kista.

Later on, Karin presented me to Kista Arts Council Nominating Committee. I was elected as a member of the Arts Council in Kista. I was also appointed by the Arts Council to attend a TV interview on the Open Channel to talk about the area's cultural activities. Although, I had given many interviews on television, radio, and in newspapers, I was nervous since this was my first television interview in Swedish. Nevertheless, I managed to control my nerves and the result was highly satisfactory.

### Getting involved in politics, 1999

Feeling on top of the world, I decided to become a member of the liberal party with the intention of raising awareness amongst politicians about the situation of the Iranian people and the inhumane political leadership in Iran.

The Iranian people and in particular women had suffered and still suffer from injustice, executions and stonings in Iran. I found it sad that no politician in the liberal party showed any interest whatsoever to address the situation.

One evening when I attended the poetry competition called 'Poetry Slam' at the Rinkeby's People's House, I met Abebe, an Eritrean-Swedish politician. He was a social democratic party member and a municipal advisor. In our brief conversation, he suggested I join their political party, which I did.

A few days later, he presented me to the Municipal Secretary, Dag Larsson. I was welcomed to the party with open arms. I was seen as someone who was highly committed and could shore up support for the party among immigrants particularly, Iranians. Recognized for the personal commitment and dedication, I was nominated as a candidate to run for office at both the parliamentary and municipality levels at the 2002 election. I was also among a handful of nominated candidates who were appointed as social democratic ambassadors for the election campaign.

The party suggested that I set up an immigrant association; an entity which later became a member of the Immigrant Committee. As the chairman of the Immigrant Association, I was elected as the board director of the Immigrant Committee. Concurrently with my other activities, I also founded the International Women Association. Both associations were very active, and jam-packed with diverse programmes.

We invited ministers, EU politicians, writers, editors, researchers, members of parliament, and mayors as our guest speakers. In addition, we held conferences about membership in the European Union (EU) and euro elections. We also arranged a few festivities.

On a less positive note, my high level of engagement and the amount of attention I was receiving because of it did not sit well with a few of the party members who harboured feelings of resentment and envy toward me. As a result, I suffered minor setbacks and undue stress, which was frustrating.

### Joy & sorrow, 2000

In conjunction with the release of my book at the Kista library, I read one of my Swedish poems there. The poem was well received by my friends at the Kista library, who encouraged me to enter it into the contest called 'My dreams Kista'. To my delight, the poem got selected for assessment by the contest's judges and won the second prize.

I won the second prize in the contest called 'My dreams Kista'

My second book Sargozashte Pary (trans. Title: Pary's memoir), which was a novel in Persian about Iranian women's struggle in Iran, was published the same year. I was on the rise again since the book got great reception, and I received many invitations from various women associations to talk about the oppression of women in Iran. I was also interviewed by 'Call in progress' programme on the Swedish Radio, Open Channel television station, Swedish local newspapers, as well as a number of foreign newspapers, radio stations and TV channels.

After the publication of my second book and its success, I called my mother to share my good news with her. She was delighted for me and wished me luck. In that same conversation, however, I found out that she was not feeling well and slept too much.

After having suffered a heart attack five years earlier and then, losing my father, her health had taken a turn for the worst. I offered her my sympathy, but advised her to think positive and keep busy. I tried to motivate her by talking about all that I had gone through that is, the difficulty of living on my own compounded by health problems, and the fact that somehow I had managed. I asked her to be strong. I reminded her that she was not the only one who had lost her husband. After all, I was only 38 years old when I lost mine.

Her last words broke my heart. At the end of our sad conversation, she asked for forgiveness for not having been kind to me, or for not having been there for me. She then told me that she might not be around for long. At that point, I burst into tears and asked why she was talking like that. She replied that her time had come and she would be gone soon. She closed with saying that although we had not seen each other for fifteen years, I was still in her heart and her thoughts, and she wanted all the best for me and my children.

Unfortunately, fifteen days later when I called home to talk to my mother, she was gone forever . . . I cried inconsolably after my mother's passing. All my loved ones who lived far away from me were gone. The distance between us had become eternal. I was always hopeful that one day, I would meet them in Sweden or back home. As of that point, however, those dreams were dead.

### 2001

In 2001, I continued to write and publish poetry. I published two collections of poems in two languages (trans. Titles: The taste of longing and loneliness in Persian, and Hard Times in Swedish). In addition, I participated in the contest 'Poetry Cup' in Husby and won the first prize.

Kerstin and Karl Axelberg presenting me with the prize

Within a short time, I also got elected as the chairman of the Immigrant Writers' Association by the Immigrant Institute for a six-year term. The association was later renamed to the Immigrant Society.

Annual meeting at the Immigrant Institute in city of Borås

### Meeting Sara Lidman, 2001

After many calls and conversations with Sara Lidman, I had the pleasure of meeting her at my home. What a glorious event! After a fascinating discussion with her, she gave me permission to translate her book (trans. Title: Minute of Innocence) into Persian. As an immigrant woman, I could not help but feel honoured.

Sara Lidman and I at my home

In February 2002, I received a phone call from a fascinating woman from Denmark called Simone Aaberg Kærn. She was an admirable and courageous young woman who was a pilot, an artist, and a documentary film-maker. Simone wanted to meet with me. She was planning to make a documentary about female pilots around the world, and she wanted to include me in the film as an Iranian female pilot. I was excited and honoured by the proposal. We decided to meet in Stockholm so, she flew from Denmark to the Barkarby airfield in Stockholm.

We were together for four days during which she took videos and collected material that covered a broad spectrum of my life pursuits. Then we flew together in her aircraft. She filmed me as I was flying the plane. I, once again, experienced the glory of the sky and the indescribable feeling that filled my heart. A lovely and eventful day in my life and after so many years. The documentary was shown later in many different countries.

<http://www.skysisters.com/TARANEH.html>

A few years after our first meeting, Simone flew to Afghanistan with her plane to teach an Afghan girl how to fly. She made a long documentary of her remarkable and at the same time, terrifying journey to a war-torn and Taliban-dominated country. She came back to her country safe and sound. That documentary was shown in Sweden and I was invited to its premiere.

That same year, I remained active and published my fifth book consisting of poems (trans. Title: Life Path) despite the chronic pain that forced me to stay in bed for days.

### Election year, 2002

During the election campaign, two major awful events happened to me that I can never forget or forgive.

The first was when I was standing at the party's information booth in downtown Stockholm in front of the Åhléns department store and handing out pamphlets to people. Two middle-aged women approached me. One of them asked me why the party had not taken a firm stand on the animal rights issue. Surprised, I asked her what she meant by that. Suddenly, the other one turned to her friend and told her, "Don't ask an animal about rights. She is an animal herself, an immigrant, and she cannot understand what the word rights means!"

Deeply offended I asked her, "Are you saying that we immigrants are animals?"

Mockingly she replied, "You are worse than that, didn't you know that?"

How should I answer a spiteful, uneducated, and unscrupulous person? I went and sat inside the booth. I could not help but cry and curse Khomeini for what we had endured and have to endure ever since we left Iran. To put up and live with racism and so much racist and xenophobic attitudes was not an easy thing to do.

The second event was an appalling and deplorable act which I can never erase from my memory. After a hard day's work which involved public meetings and pamphlet distributions, all staff and candidates such as, myself were invited out in the evening to a place called Kurs-garden in Nacka. I was always friendly and nice to everyone, but I was soon to learn not to be so with every man since not all men have the capacity to handle that. We women are always sex objects for men regardless of our age, appearance, status, and so forth.

I had kept my health issues to myself and no one in that group knew about my chronic illnesses. They had no idea that I was taking twenty five strong pills a day just to be able to stand on my feet, or else I would have had to stay in bed most of the time.

By the time we got to the place in Nacka, I had come down with a sever headache, one of my migraine episodes to be sure, and I needed to lie down. Due to my migraine, I was also nauseous and could not eat or drink anything. So I decided to call a cab and go home. A colleague who worked as an office administrator for the party suggested I go lie down in one of the rooms that were set up for anyone who needed to stay over night.

He took me to the room; ensured I was in bed; turned the light off; closed the door; and, left. I do not know how much time had elapsed when someone opened the door and entered the room. The light from the hallway hit my face and irritated my eyes. The mysterious person approached the bed and started touching my body and before I knew it, his hands were in my underwear. He grabbed my hand and told me to touch him. Although the room was dark and I was in complete state of shock, I recognized his voice to be "G" (for his sake, I refrain from mentioning his name in full). I shouted at him to leave me alone. I said I had a headache, but I was sober and fully alert. And I told him that he needed to get out, or I would start screaming. I tried to defend myself the best I could, and I kept shoving him away from me as hard as I could.

As soon as he left the room, I struggled to get up and get myself out of that room to find out how many people from our group were still there. A few were smoking on the balcony; while, E and I-M from Women Association were chatting in the lounge. E was always cold toward me and I knew fully well that she did not like me. I went to I-M and I had hardly said a few words, before E piped up in an unfriendly manner and said, "Arya, go to bed. We are talking and we have no time for you." I turned around in disbelief and went back to the room. This time, however, I locked the door so no one else could sneak in. I was afraid though and I could not sleep. I had no idea where that man was since he was not in the lounge or on the balcony.

In the morning of the following day, all of us who had stayed at Kurs-garden overnight went to the polling station, where I went to I-M's office and told her in tears about the incident. She felt bad and apologized for not having listened to me the previous evening. She told me to go see the municipal secretary. Upon hearing about the incident, he got really upset, but he asked me not to say anything to anyone about that. He was worried that if the word got out, the party would land in a scandal. However, he promised to further investigate the matter after the election was over. Although he wanted me to keep quiet about what had transpired, I did tell J and N (two members of the party) about the incident that same day. Then I left the polling station and went home. I could not work for days. I was tired, sad and disappointed when I somehow got myself home. I just wanted to take a shower and wash his filthy fingerprints off my body. It is horrible to be alone with nowhere to turn to for support or comfort.

I was unfortunately not elected to the parliament or the municipality. However, I got elected as the Director of the Children's Day Foundation, which owns and manages the 'Children's Island' in Väddö Island and Fiskeboda area in Julita. Another position that I was elected for was jury service at the Stockholm City Court for a four-year term, which was an exciting and rewarding function for me. I had lived with a lawyer for 23 years and was pleased to be involved in the Swedish judiciary system.

Aside from gaining new experience, I also went on official visits to various Swedish Customs offices, penitentiaries, and detention centers in Stockholm and Kumla. In addition, there were visits to district courts in other countries, of which I only attended two namely those in Berlin and China. Even though the trips were not at all free of charge, and we had to pay for the entire cost of the trip, they were extremely worthwhile and enlightening. For me enriching trips like those, or the one I took to the European Parliament in Brussels through my affiliation with the social democratic party were priceless.

I was, however, less than impressed with the party. I realized that the party did not want to address the issue in any shape or form. The incident seemed to have been rather forgotten and no investigations were ever conducted despite the initial promises. As if the inaction of the party was not hurtful enough, I also had the displeasure of running into the offender time and again at the municipality and at various meetings. An immoral and unethical man whom I avoided at all costs. He was neither ashamed of nor remorseful about what he had done since he had the audacity of sending me an e-mail to ask me why I was avoiding him, and why we could not sort out the matter between the two of us. I have saved that e-mail in my archives.

However, it did not take long before he was asked to resign from all his posts and leave the political party altogether. As it turned out, he had sexually harassed other women who stood up to him and filed charges against him. Once the issue was made public through the media, the party found it in its best interest to discard him.

Between 2000 and 2006, I was fully engaged in politics as well as different associations as a volunteer chairman or board member.

### 2003

In 2003, my life was devoted to my work at the Stockholm City Court and at different associations.

In parallel with those activities, I published two more collections of poetry one in Swedish (trans. Title: The empty frame) containing both English and Swedish poems, and the other in Persian (trans. Title: Butterflies longs to fly in the garden).

Official visit to the district court in Berlin, 2003

### My first grandchild, 2004

One of the highlights of this year was the birth of my first grandchild Alicia; God's most beautiful gift, a sweet and adorable girl. Now I was a proud and happy grandmother. Little Alicia's love filled my heart.

Alicia and I

Her birth gave me enormous inspiration and brought much joy to my life. I went on to publish another book of poems (trans. Title: Burning Heart). The title of the book 'Burning heart' truly summed up the way I felt.

Official visit to the EU Parliament in Brussels, 2004

### A new health issue

As a result of a car accident in 2001, I was left with tinnitus. On top of the headaches and neck aches, I now had this constant buzzing in my ears. I eventually started to lose more and more of my hearing to the point that I needed hearing aids.

The accident occurred in a snow storm in the winter of 2001. That day, I had gone with a good friend of mine, Jan Rygaared, to Lida in south-eastern Stockholm. We were heading back to Jan's home in Norsborg when at the main intersection in Tumba, a car ran into us as we were in the middle of intersection trying to make a left hand turn. The car hit us on the right-hand side and the impact of it jolted my head back and forth.

Shortly after the car accident, I felt an unusual ringing in my ears especially, at night time. The sound became louder and more uncomfortable with the passage of time. In conjunction with the noise in my ears, I also felt a sore point behind one ear. Unfortunately, my doctor neglected to address the issue of soreness behind my ear, the consequence of which was significant in my wellbeing. It took until 2007, which was six years too late, for the cause to be investigated and treated.

In addition, I was suffering with another illness for years. I had pain in my muscles, felt tired, and was constantly lethargic. I was given strong painkillers that I had to take five times a day just to ease the pain and be able to carry on. After many tests and consultations, I was finally diagnosed with fibromyalgia and osteoporosis in 2005.

Despite all of that, I kept fighting. I did not want my physical pain and illnesses to overtake my life. I had to keep going and keep busy. So at the end of 2005, I published my poetry book A Song of Love in English.

### A year full of joy and fear, 2006

In early 2006, I published my new poetry collection (trans. Title: The sky has no limits) in Swedish.

In February that year, seventy five of us jurors went to China for a visit for a week. My son Ali and his wife, who were also jurors, came on this exciting journey. The trip was meant to give us an insight into the legal system in Beijing. We were scheduled to visit the district courts, prisons and jails.

Our trip coincided with the Chinese New Year. The city was clean and decorated with red dragons and lanterns. All the snow had been ploughed by an army of volunteers.

From the first moment we arrived, we were warned about pickpocketers, street vendors, and beggars. We were also told to watch out for counterfeit money. Our guide advised us not to give large bills to street vendors due to the risk of getting counterfeit money back. Unfortunately though, I got counterfeit money back of a female street vendor. Another female juror fell victim to pickpocketers. And some of us got robbed at our hotel.

In addition to our sightseeing, we visited a Chinese family at their home, which felt unreal and phoney in every aspect including, the script-like narrative we got about their day-to-day living. To be in China and to see the way of life in a communist country, I could not help but be reminded of my trips to Bulgaria in 1980, and Cuba in 1998. On the surface, a happy and thankful nation who in reality suffer from oppression and poverty in much the same way as in my country, Iran.

Visit of The Forbidden City The Great Wall of China

### Leaving Husby, 2006

In March 2006, after fifteen long and tedious years of living in the suburb of Akalla and Husby, I moved to a newly built area in the South called the Hammarby Sjöstad. As a result of the move, I had a better quality of life and I finally felt like living in Sweden.

Thanks to my son Iraj who helped me with my move, the move went quickly and smoothly. Although I hired a moving company, it was Iraj who played a major part in my entire move to the new place. He wanted to make sure that I am fully settled in before he started his pre-deployment military training for going on a UN tour of duty.

Before my move, I had a conversation with one of Husby's local politician. I told him about the problems in the area and asked for help to improve the living conditions there. He looked at me strangely and told me that I was the only one complaining; I suppose he must have read all my articles that had been published in the local newspaper Mitt i Kista. He then suggested that I had two options and they were to either move back to my country, or move out of that area! While taken aback by the response, I told him that he had two options as well, and they were to either resign from office and give people back their votes, or listen to the constituents' demands.

Although I moved out of Husby, I think about those who live there and in similar areas. I do hope that one day a responsible politician would come along and help people who live in such areas.

### No escape from war

The war seemed to follow me no matter where I went. After Ali's military service in the Iran-Iraq war, both my daughter and son-in-law served with the Canadian Forces in war-torn countries. The relief I felt by their safe return home soon dissipated at the news of my son, Iraj, joining the Swedish Military in early 2006.

After nine months of training, he was to be deployed to a war-torn country. The whole life became a dark place for me. I cried day and night. There was nothing anyone could say or do to make him change his mind. While I am proud of my children's independence and their courage, I simply could not and cannot live with the horror of war time after time.

The day he was going to be deployed, I felt dizzy. To say farewell was excruciating for me. I hugged him tightly and did not want to let go. I thought I died when he closed the door and left. I went slowly to the window, and watched as he waved at me for the last time before getting in his car and disappearing. Unfortunately for me, that was not the only time I had to go through that anguish and agony since between 2006 to 2011, Iraj did three tour-of-service in war stricken countries.

### Visit to Dominica, 2006

I was a member of the United Nations for many years and worked voluntarily as a contact for newly arrived refugees. In 2005, six of us were asked by the United Nations and Swedish International Development Agency (SIDA) to participate in an exchange visit to Dominica which was the last Caribbean island to be colonized by the Europeans.

In June 2006, I went to Dominica on an exchange visit mandated by the Stockholm UN branch with five other people. Our mission was to visit schools, libraries, banana plantations and meet with the local politicians. During the 1990s, the Stockholm UN branch had got engaged in Dominica, and in 1998, it had created an association with the aboriginal people. We brokered funding from SIDA for two existing libraries, one located near the sea and another in Sineku. Already in existence were also a "resource center" with a library, workshop space and a meeting room. Before our trip, I contacted the Stockholm Public Library, and the Luma library located in Hammarby Sjöstad, while the others contacted a few publishers to get the books we needed to gather. Later on, when a group from Dominica came to Stockholm for a visit, they managed to take more books with them.

The trip was an enriching experience for all of us; the memories of which will be remembered for a lifetime. Despite the challenging job we had, we could not help but enjoy the delicious food and fresh fruit juices, the warm climate, the heavy rains, and most of all, people's warmth and kindness. If I could summarize my feelings of the trip, it would be: Dominica is a real paradise. Despite the prevailing poverty, people are happy, generous and nice.

In late 2006, I visited an art exhibition held by a good friend of mine, Nasrin, at the Husby library. There, I got to be introduced to one of her acquaintances Elise, a Sami woman who lived in Jokkmokk and was organizing a big celebration for Linnaeus' 300th year commemoration in Jokkmokk and Kvikkjokk up north in Lappland in July 2007.

Elise wanted to invite a few artists from Stockholm to the event. After the presentation, she became interested to also invite me as a poet and an author. She gave me the task of writing lyrics for the presentation of Elise and other female designers, whose dresses were to be displayed at that event. Besides that, she wanted me to perform in Jokkmokk's community singing in Kvikkjokk's church and at the final dinner party. Altogether, there were seven of us in that group of artists who were to travel there. Each of us was also supposed to paint three paintings of the same dimensions and sizes that were going to be displayed at the exhibition in Kvikkjokk. Since I was not a painter, I decided to put together three pictures with my poems in Persian, English and Swedish.

My poems, acrylic on canvas

Those three paintings inspired me to take a brush and palette and work with colour. That peaked my interest to try to paint a real motive, which I did. I painted a spring flower with acrylic on paper and I took that painting to the exhibition in Kvikkjokk as well.

### The trip to Jokkmokk, July 2007

We boarded the train heading to Jokkmokk. The trip was absolutely fantastic and unforgettable. The landscape was breathtaking and it took me right back to my home country. We were received with open arms. During our two wonderful weeks in Jokkmokk and Kvikkjokk, we visited a number of places and met amazing people with different occupations including, artist and cultural intermediary Lars Pirak and his wife Astrid. I felt honoured to be a part of such magnificent event.

The exhibition was packed with visitors. Joining the local residents, there were also many tourists and mountain climbers at the exhibition. In addition to the display of my three pictures, which were donated to the Jokkmokk municipality, I was allocated a space to exhibit my books, and my spring flower painting was hung up on a wall.

We received invitations from many including, Lars Pirak and his wife, which we happily accepted. We had a fantastic time at each gathering particularly, the one that coincided with my birthday.

Lars Pirak and his wife Astrid

An unusual and pleasant thing for me was that we managed to eat Persian food in one of the five Persian restaurants in that small municipality with only five thousand inhabitants.

### My second grandchild, 2007

A few days before the Persian New Year, which occurs on March 21, my grandson Anton was born. The joy of his birth enriched our New Year celebrations and filled my life with so much joy. Although my son and his family do not live in Stockholm, and the long distance between us prevents me from seeing my beloved grandchildren as often as I would like to, their love gives me the strength to carry on.

Anton

Later that year, there was the wedding celebration. A beautiful reception was held for Madjid and Maria, as well for Anton's christening.

The wedding

Late one night in March 2007, I was fully occupied with the writing of my new book Anahita. A story inspired by a young girl's hopeless life in the male-dominated country of Iran. A 15-year-old girl called Ziba who marries a man 40 years her senior and their little two-year-old daughter Anahita. Her miserable and short marriage comes to an end with a horrendously tragic incident.

The book's first edition was published in Swedish in 2007. The book was then translated to English by Mina Boyne and published in Canada in 2008. Since the first edition received incredible reviews and was sold out, a second edition, which was also sold out, was printed in 2008 to address the high demand.

In any case, that evening while I was fully engaged in writing, I suddenly felt a drip from my right ear that ran down my neck. I felt the wet area on my neck and to my horror, it was blood! Despite being terrified, I decided not to take any actions since it was late at night. In other words, neither could I get myself to an emergency, nor would have any paramedics been dispatched to check up on something like that. I thought it would be best to take it easy and wait until morning to visit a doctor.

Truth be told, I spent a very restless night. I was worried what that was about. I was already tired of all the other health issues that I had and I, surely, hated to think that I had to deal with yet another one. Finally in the morning, I could take action. I waited till nine o'clock to call my ear specialist with the hopes of seeing him perhaps on an urgent basis. Sadly, I could not see him right away and had to wait a few agonizing days. Finally when I saw the specialist, he conducted a lengthy examination after which he announced that I had an infected pocket in that ear. Then he wrote a referral for further check up at the Karolinska hospital, which unfortunately meant that I had to wait at least a few months before I would even get an appointment. While the Alliance party's Health Minister, Göran Hägglund, keeps pushing to limit the waiting time for medical visits to a maximum of three months, I waited about half a year just to get a notice to attend an appointment with the surgeon for the following month.

Meanwhile, I thought it would be best to try and occupy myself with, among others, writing and publishing. After my remarkable trip to Jokkmokk, and the successful publication of my book Anahita, I translated my first Persian novel (trans. Title: Pary's memoir) to Swedish. That translated version came to form the first part of a story which was then carried on in another novel (trans. Title: Escape from the hell in Iran to the paradise in Sweden). The entire novel deals with the horrible situation of women in Iran.

Pary is a beautiful girl and the only child of a middle-class family. Her father has great expectations for her future and wants her to become a doctor. Against her father's wishes, however, Pary falls in love with an evil man and gets married. Pary is repeatedly beaten up and raped by her own husband. She lives a wretched life where she constantly worries that her husband will kill her or their two-year old child. According to the Islamic laws, Pary will not be given custody of her child after a divorce so, she has to endure that miserable life. She continues her studies and becomes a doctor, but she is unhappy. Then she decides to take her child and flee from Iran. Although the story is fictional, it still bears major resemblance with the lives of millions of women in Iran. Women in Iran have no rights. They receive no support from the legal system, the government, or male family members.

The book's first edition was published in 2008. And the second edition was printed in 2009.

### 2008

In January 2008, the group of mixed artists decided to hold a joint exhibition in Lava in the Husby garden displaying paintings, dresses and slideshows.

I participated in that exhibition with my books and my two paintings. After our trip to Jokkmokk, I had done a painting with acrylic on paper which depicted a view of the beautiful Kvikkjokk.

Exhibition at Husby's Art Centre together with other artists

I began my painting career in 2007.

I was always fascinated by nature and all its majestic beauty. I always wanted to paint the images that I had stored in my memory from my childhood or my dreams. All my notebooks were full of my drawings. At meetings, conferences, or at home, I drew incessantly on pieces of paper. Inspired by my father's drawings and art work, I was forever interested in painting from my early childhood.

It took till December 2007, when I pursued painting on a more rigorous fashion and registered for free-style painting course at the Birkagården which marked the beginning of a new chapter in my life.

2008, at Birkagården Blue Angel (Copy of Chagall), oil on canvas

### A rare disease

In 2007, I got to see the specialist at the Huddinge hospital regarding the issue with my right ear. I also frequented the Karolinska hospital on a regular basis. After a series of tests by an audiologist to assess my hearing and an MRI of my ear, I was told by the specialist that I suffered from a rare disease called cholesteotoma, the earlier symptoms of which was the pain behind my ear that I had consistently complained about for seven years. Sadly, the doctors had not diagnosed it at the time. Had it not been for the bleeding from my ear, the disease would have never been discovered. I was told that I had to be operated.

The surgeon warned me about the disease and told me that I had no choice. An immediate surgery was necessary otherwise; the cyst would become larger with time and could destroy the ossicles, damage the facial nerve, damage the inner ear, and even expand further into the brain.

I was finally operated on in March 2008, just over a year after the first bleeding.

### The surgery, 2008

The day before my surgery, my son Madjid traveled a long distance and came to Stockholm to be with me. With two small children at home, he stayed with me and would not leave me alone. Fortunately, I am blessed to have caring children.

Early in the morning, I went to the hospital with my sons Ali and Madjid. At eight o'clock in the morning, I was wheeled into the operating room. I tried to put on a brave face and joked around with the personnel, but deep down inside I was nervous. The next thing I remember was someone calling my name repeatedly. I slowly gained consciousness. I tried to turn toward the voice, but it hurt to turn my head. She stroke my face tenderly and told me not to exert myself. I was told that I would be taken to my room soon. That was eight o'clock in the evening.

I tried to make heads and tails out of what had gone on. I went into the operating room at eight in the morning, and I came out at eight in the evening. I had slept an entire day. I was taken up to my room. On the way, the nurse told me that my sons Ali and Madjid, and my daughter-in-law Faryal had been waiting all day. Since no one knew how long the operation would take, they had no choice but to go home. They were going to be back in the morning. I asked the hospital staff to give me my cell phone and I called my children straight away.
 ⋲

The following day, my son Madjid came to visit. Also, my specialist Henrik Smeds came to see how I was doing. The first thing he said though was that everyone at the operating room had sent their regards and wished me a speedy recovery. They had found me to be the nicest patient they had ever met. Then, he explained a little bit about the procedure including, how big the cyst was that required six hours for them to scrape the infected section and repair the area behind the ear.

What surprised me the most was that I was discharged at once. I really could not believe that after such long and difficult surgery, I was being sent home in less than twenty-four hours. He explained that the reason I was being discharged was that on Fridays the department was completely shut down. How strange! For an entire department to be closed down and for the patients to be sent home after a major surgery. I asked what I should do in case of emergency. I was informed that I could go to the Karolinska hospital in Solna and stay there one more night if it was required.

How can the health care system in Sweden be so irresponsible as to close down an entire section on Fridays and send the newly operated patients home. County council or health-care custodians should not be this nonchalant towards people's health. Luckily, I was not alone; Madjid was there. Therefore, I decided to go home instead of going to the Karolinska hospital in Solna for just one more night.

March 2008, after the surgery at the Huddinge hospital

The doctor assured me that the surgery went well, but I was not so sure since before the operation, I had tinnitus and a constant pain behind my ear. After the surgery, however, I got one more problem; a loud and annoying noise in my ears which was absolutely intolerable. As a result, my life became more cumbersome and miserable. My social life was non-existent as I could not have family or friends over. I could not even go out for a simple shopping, and had no patience for being in public places. The unbelievable, massive noise in my ears was driving me crazy. I had become buried alive. I quit going to the gym, and stopped showing up at my painting course. I had to turn down all invitations. I began to desperately go back and forth to my physician. They switched my hearing aids and nothing seemed to resolve the issue.

The only way I could keep myself occupied was to stay home and paint. The work I accomplished during that period resulted in an exhibition. In July 2008, I held my first exhibition at Kocks gallery at Söder. Although the exhibition was a success, I was in agony the whole time. Those who did not know I was suffering from an illness, could not tell how difficult it was for me to stand and talk. But my family and close friends knew of course how much pain I was in.

Kocks gallery at Söder

To my delight, I found out that I had won the hearts and minds of the visitors, and had captured the media's attention form that very early stage in my painting career.

The large crowd that showed up at my exhibition in combination with the number of articles that were published in various newspapers served as great feedback for me to continue along the new and challenging path that I had chosen for myself.

The following is the translation of the foregoing Swedish article published in Påstan.nu.

Writer and pilot holds an art exhibition

Akram Monfared-Arya was born in Tehran in 1946 and after Princess Fatemeh Pahlavi, was the country's first female pilot. She came to Sweden with his family as a result of the 1979 revolution. In 1999, she published her first poem and short story collection, "Love's Echo" and since then, she has worked with poetry slam and translated Sara Lidman's books among others. Now she displays 43 paintings in acrylic and oil.

My paintings are about the situation of women in my country, who have no place in the world. Some of my paintings are figurative art and some are abstract, says Akram Monfared-Arya. At the exhibition opening ceremony, everyone will also be invited to listen to live Persian music. Märta Myrstener, DN 08-07-11

It was not easy to live with a loud and deafening noise in my ears and have so much pain all over my body, but I still did not want to give up hope. I had fought hard against all odds all my life and I did not want to give in. Therefore, I picked up the pace again. I started going to art classes at various schools such as, the Folk University.

Moreover, I took up writing, only this time, I did not want to write a novel or fiction. Rather, I wanted to write a factual book about my son, Ali's life story, his escape from Iran, his experience in the war between Iran and Iraq, and his life in exile in Sweden. I had planned to have the book published in 2009.

In the interim, I held an exhibition at Lyxigt & Mysigt gallery in Hammarby Sjöstad in November 2008.

Exhibition at Lyxigt & Mysigt in Hammarby Sjöstad Hammarby hillside and beach

### 2009

The new year began with a television cooking contest show called "Seven-thirty at my place" hosted on TV4 station. An entire thrilling week of participating in a cooking contest, which on one hand was very enjoyable, and on the other, very taxing due to my ear trouble. Nonetheless, I participated and I even won! I was ecstatic when we were given the result. I found more inspiration and energy when luckily, I won the competition.

I believe one can win if one wants to. Life is hard and yet, wonderful. I want to live life to the fullest and do things I have always dreamt of all my life.

"Seven-thirty at my place", January 2009 The potato-salad (Salad Olvie)

In addition to the cooking challenge and all my painting classes, I held three exhibitions in Stockholm the same year, the first of which was in March at Rica gallery in Östermalm.

Rica gallery in Östermalm

In July, I received a grant from the Writers' Association to live in Ariane Wahlgren's Writers' House in Athens for two weeks. The house was small and cozy. It had three bedrooms. One bedroom was allocated to a guest writer, one belonged to the Association of Journalists, and the third one was for any accompanying guests. At the disposal of the house-guests, there was also a fair size kitchen, a bathroom, and a living room full of books which served as a common-room. During my stay there, I was joined by a female journalist. The house was in the vicinity of the Acropolis. And the only downside of the house was the thirty eight steps that one had to climb up in order to get to the house.

Ariane Wahlgren's Writers' House in Athens

On top of basking in the warmth of the sun, I also took an intensive portrait course from a Greek artist. I spent the majority of my time, however, on finishing up my son's biography. Upon returning home, the manuscript was immediately submitted to a printing-house. Fortunately, the book was printed on time so, I managed to present it in August at the time of my art exhibition at Darling gallery in Söder.

Darling gallery in Söder

I got enormous support and help from Ali. He is always by my side at my book presentations, lectures, even my opening ceremonies. He brings so much to the ambiance by playing Persian music. He plays a variety of Persian musical instruments, as well as piano and keyboard. Lately, he has begun to compose his own music, write lyrics and sing.

Fortunately, all my children are kind and help me in one way or another. My daughter, who for twenty-five years lived far away from us in Canada, had finally moved to Sweden in mid 2009 to be closer to the family especially, me. She was tired of living so far away from her family, thus she and her husband decided to move to Sweden.

In October, I displayed my paintings at Törnfågeln gallery in Västertorp, which was the last exhibition I held that year.

Törnfågeln gallery

All throughout the year, I was in constant contact with my specialist at the Huddinge hospital regarding the new medical problem that I was suffering from since my ear surgery. At first, they could not grasp what kind of a problem it was, and thought that maybe I was exaggerating a bit; after all, I was still keeping busy to the best I could. They tried to persuade me to be patient and allow time for the wounds to heal, which they believed would bring to an end the screaming in my ears. At times, I would call crying over the phone and begging for help.

I was dizzy. Besides the loss of hearing, I had lost my balance too. I fell down many times because, normally, I deal with the loud noise in my ears by twisting and turning my head, and pressing hard on a spot behind my ear, which tends to keep changing its place. One time, I fell down on the street right in front of a moving bus. I was lucky that the bus driver managed to stop the bus before running over me, and I only ended up with injuries to my knees and wrists. People helped me get up while the bus driver rushed to see how I was doing. Shortly after that, my knees became swollen as well as my right thumb. Even to this date, I still have problems with my knees and right thumb.

At any rate, through further medical probing, it was found that sadly for me, the surgery had not been successful; something had gone wrong which had brought about the mysterious and excruciating loud noise in my ears. The only option was to operate on me again.

### 2010

In January, it was time to go through another surgery again. This time I was accompanied to the Huddinge hospital by my daughter Mina and my son Iraj. I was not as scared the first time as I was the second time around. It certainly was not fun to be operated every two years for the same problem. Despite my best efforts, this time I really could not be as nice as I was the last time in the operating room. Fear had taken over and I could not help but cry. In part, I was also worried about what possible unknown problems would arise out of this surgery. The doctor tried to comfort me by telling me that the operation was not going to take as long as the last time and everything would be fine. Yet, I could not take any promises seriously. The operation took one hour less than the first one. At eight o'clock in the evening when I woke up, I was transferred to my room. My children had been waiting there worried all day and anxious to see me.

The day after, I got to see my surgeon. He did not tell me much about the nature of the problem, but he assured me that everything was going to be fine. I was again released from the hospital due to the closure of the department on Fridays.

I suppose it is only in Sweden that such unrealistic policy exists within the health care system. I had gone through surgeries in my country, in Italy and in Canada. In none of those countries, be it the underdeveloped or developed countries, had I encountered such phenomenon. With regard to the expenditure and allocation of the health-care budget, one would expect that priority is given to the patients' health before concerns for savings, coffee breaks, luncheons, conferences, business trips and meetings. It is disturbing that oftentimes, the health-care providers or doctors in Sweden are found to have made inexcusable mistakes. I am certainly one of the victims of the reckless and negligent attitude that prevails in the health care system. After a failed operation which left me with pain, tinnitus, and a deafening noise in my ears, I have become more and more limited in my social interactions and cannot stand either low or high-pitched sounds. Another health problem that was triggered as a result of that surgery was my loss of balance, for which I have to meet a specialist every six months to have the crystals in my ears adjusted. After each treatment for the loss of balance, I am not supposed to bend, twist or turn my neck for twenty-four hours. Moreover, I have to sleep sitting up on the first night after the treatment. I also have to follow-up with my ear surgeon once every six months since there is a possibility that the cholesteotoma disease in my ears will come back again.

Year 2010, Karin cooks for me after both my operations

After both operations, I tried to find a network of people affected by the same disease in order to find out more about the illness and its treatment. Unfortunately, however, I found none, neither online, nor at the hospitals.

In other countries such as, the U.S. and Canada, there are websites inundated with massive amount of information and extensive discussion boards in reference to cholesteotoma. But unfortunately in Sweden, there was no information to be had.

I participated in a Swedish television programme called "Dr. Åsa," which is aired on SVT station, to share with others my own experiences in dealing with the illness. In the course of that television interview, I tried to raise greater awareness about the disease.

The TV interview coincided with my art exhibition at Ängel gallery in Gamla Stan (Old Town), which was held in collaboration with the National Organization of the Breast Cancer Associations (BRO).

Ängel gallery in Gamla stan 2010, BRO

Arja Leppänen, Executive Director of the National Organization of the Breast Cancer Associations

The painting in the above picture was donated by me to the National Organization of the Breast Cancer Associations

Concurrently, I was once again awarded a grant from the Writers' Association to stay in the Swedish Writers' House in Kavala, Greece, for two weeks. It was a beautiful house situated in a very picturesque location. The view of the entire city and the sea, which could be seen from the rooftop, was simply breathtaking. I was so inspired by my surroundings that I sat at my computer and wrote parts of this book while I was there. Overall, the trip went well, and I even managed to hold a small exhibition displaying a few of my paintings and books.

Exhibition at the Swedish Writers' House in Kavalla Kavalla, Greece

As 2010 drew to a close, I held an art exhibition at the Clarion Hotel Sing in Stockholm in conjunction with the annual assembly of the National Organization of the Breast Cancer Associations.

November 2010, exhibition at the Clarion Hotel Sing in Stockholm in conjunction with BRO's annual meeting

I was delighted to have one of my paintings purchased by the National Organization of the Breast Cancer Associations and raffled among the participants.

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### 2011 & Beyond

Throughout most of my active life, I have been interviewed many times by media in different parts of the world. In 2003, for instance, I was featured in an article in the USA Today. There seems to have been a certain fascination surrounding my life by virtue of which, I gained positive feedback and reviews from people and media, which, in turn, strengthened my resolve to carry on with what I have already accomplished, as well as what I would like to achieve in future.

I also received many awards, prizes and grants. In year 2011, I went to Kavala, Greece, on yet another grant. That was the third time I was granted the opportunity to stay at the Swedish Writers' House in Greece by the Writers' Association.

It was there that I finished writing this book, which was the fifteenth book that I have written and published.

Sadly however, I suffered a stroke within a short time after returning home. A stroke that has left me with certain impairments including, a partial loss of sight in one of my eyes.

While I do not know how long I will live, I try not to lose my zest for life, or my will to continue to move forward. I aim for the stars and hope for the best. My life has been full of ups and downs, and through it all, I have maintained a positive outlook.

I certainly look forward to writing more books, perhaps a Persian cook book would be my next project for future . . .

The beauty of the ocean is hidden beneath its surface

As you read my story, let it be remembered that I am an eternally condemned being on earth. I belong to no country even though, I am a citizen of two countries.

Did you know that I get punished in both countries for different reasons? In one of them, I can never ever dare to commit the great sin of rejecting religion and declaring that I am not a Muslim. I cannot say that I do not believe in religion, not just Islam, but religion in general. I cannot point out that I did not choose the religion of Islam on my own volition. We are born into whatever religion we have inherited. I do not believe in any religion that tolerates killing people regardless of their guilt or innocence. If I dare express myself then, I run the risk of getting executed as a heretic.

I am also punished in my second country the minute I announce that I am an Iranian. At that point, I am viewed as a detestable Muslim, maybe even a terrorist, a fanatic, a savage, a back warded and illiterate barbarian, or an indigent woman just looking for hand-outs.

I live in two separate worlds with different values. Is it not sad that prejudice and malediction haunt me for all time and in all places?

I feel I am hanging between heaven and earth. And that simply because, I do not truly belong to either one of the two countries of which I am a citizen. It is really of no use for me to claim that I am an Iranian-Swede because I am stateless, and I am not considered a bona fide compatriot be it, here or there. There, I am a heretic; and, here, I am a foreigner forever.

### When fate decides!

My dream of living in freedom and security in my country, Iran, was shattered when the country turned upside down by the riots in 1979. I am not happy to live as a refugee or an immigrant in a foreign country. Unfortunately, there were no other options. One flees a country in order to save one's children and one's own life from torture and death in the hope of living a life without fear. I live now as my fate had decided for me. One must accept one's unknown destiny. Although, I am grateful that I at least got to live in a democratic country like Sweden for the rest of my life, I am not satisfied with being an immigrant forevermore.

I always wonder, "Will we ever be accepted as true fellow citizens?"

The escape across the border was not that easy. The thoughts of that country and everything we lost follow us day and night.

When one flees one's homeland, there is so much uncertainty as to what will become of one's life. Some end up in worse situations. Those who ended up in Sweden know that they are in good hands.

The substance of my life is formed by both the peaks and the troughs. My dreams are now gone with the storm of the Islamic revolution. However, I kept calm and managed to create another career for myself and enrich my life in an entirely different fashion. As such, I am happy and proud of my new life, and thankful for the freedom and peace I found in the new country of mine, Sweden. I am very grateful to my God, for being patient and for being strong. But apart from all the good and the bad that I had to experience in this new country, and everything that happened to me and may happen in future, Sweden will always have a big place in my heart, shining like glimmering mother-of-pearl.

Restless foot

### The world is just a playground

Acrylic on canvas

Now in my old age, I realize that life is just a game or a joke. All of us humans are like children no matter how long we live or how old we get.

Life for me now resembles a sandbox where we as children assemble to play. We build houses; we make cars and all sorts of stuff out of that sand. Some are masters and the rest of us their servants. The masters make war and destroy the little world that was built in the sandbox. As for the rest of us, we are in the service of the masters just to satisfy their ego. We bow our heads, and we follow them blindly, or else, we are thrown out of the sandbox and banned from playing there. We girls in this little sandbox-world have no place in the centre. We are always tossed to the side. Unfortunately, it does not really matter if we are skilful, strong, talented, beautiful, or can do things no one else can. It does not matter to the masters that girls have more brain power than the little masters. We are women and have no place anywhere. Women all over the world, regardless of their nationality, religion, ability and talent have no right to act like a competent person in that sandbox; one is judged based on one's gender and nothing else.

We children go on playing in our little world. We content ourselves with life's game of good and evil in that small sandbox until daylight vanishes. Now it is time for an eternal sleep. We slip beneath the sand in the sandbox where we used to play together. That is the meaning of life, the course of life, the path of life. We fight hard and tear each other to pieces, and for what? For nothing!

We ride along to get as far as we can in order to gain more power and grounds for ourselves. Human being's greed is endless and has no boundaries. All our actions and concerns, our deeds and ownerships, and all our efforts to turn back time are unfortunately in vain. In the end, we all close our eyes not knowing where we came from originally, and where we are going ultimately. That is the meaning of life and nothing else. Despite the fact that life is short, it is still wonderful.

We must make the most of what we have, and avoid wasting energy on inconsequential matters that would bring about conflicts and ruin the lives of others. We should not be mean to each other. Let the short life pass peacefully. We only live once and there is no coming back for anyone. No one will live forever.

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### The author's closing words

Ever since the 1979 revolution, Iran has been an Islamic republic. The regime implemented the Sharia law in 1979 which are still in force. Shi'a Muslims are a minority in most Muslim countries.

After the revolution in Iran, women were forced to wear the veil. Disobedient, guilty and even innocent people were sentenced to death by stoning or hanging.

Before the revolution, Iran was a secular, non-religious society. Perhaps, it was the most secular of all Muslim countries in the Middle East. The country modernized rapidly and reforms during the Shah's time were many. Women, for instance, were granted the right to vote in 1963. Also, the wearing of the veil was banned in 1936 by Reza Shah, Shah's father.

Yet the revolution was brought about by the entire nation including, women. One wonders what the point was in a revolution that had so many consequences for the entire population particularly, for women whose rights were soon infringed? And what about so many who after a while regretted their choice?

No one knows what really happened to the millions of people who fled as a result of the revolution. Did they find a better life? How have they managed to cope with their new life? in a good way? Or . . .

Well, in the end all our dreams were utterly shattered and became but hellish nightmares in the bloodbath of the Islamic revolution of Iran!

Guest-speaker at the City Hall

###

### I would especially like to thank the following people _:_

My children Ali, Mina, Reza, Madjid, Iraj and my grandchildren Alicia and Anton, their love gave me inspiration for life and strength to continue to live.

My husband who supported me, encouraged me and gave me all the freedom in the world to grow.

My daughter-in-laws Faryal and Maria and my son-in-law Daimian.

My father who is no longer alive.

My mother, despite all the disagreements. After all, we have only one mother!

Thanks to my honest and faithful friends:

Karin von Ruth

Jan Rygaard

The Mellegård family

Ruth Frölander

Inge and Mari-Ann Karlsson

Kerstin Hultgren and Jan Andersson

Marianne Gottlander

And all other friends of mine who helped me in the beginning to get back on my feet, throughout all the years and in different ways. Those who did not want to just lean on my shoulders so as to merely ease their own pain.

Last but not least, an extra and special thanks to my eldest son Ali Sadeghian. He is my right-hand man. Thanks for all the advice and all the help I have received from him in all the years.

My son Ali Sadeghian

http://www.dorefa.com

Special and big thanks to even:

All my opponents whose adversity made me steadfast to move one step closer to my goal.

Thanks to all large, small, famous and nameless publishers who in all these years did not want to publish my books. Their resistance forced me to become almost an expert in the publishing industry!

Thanks to all my adversaries, all those who discriminated against me, bullied, humiliated and insulted me in some fashion or other. Those who threw a spanner into the works for me. Those who blocked me from accomplishing my goals, those who stuck a knife in my back while at the same time, embraced me ever so kindly.

Thanks to the Swedish media that ignored me and told me, "We do not pay great attention to what you do or did."

I met life's adversities with relative ease, without getting any help from anywhere. Yet, I am aware that in the next round, I will meet an even tougher resistance.

**Thanks** to those who claim that I am an arrogant woman as a result of the special status I enjoyed while living in Iran, or as a result of coming from a rich family. Why do they not see life's irony in the present time that is: Who am I now? What has destiny done to me, or given me? To me it really does not matter, they can knock me down. But I will get up and move on.

Over the years, those negative feelings became more bothersome and overwhelming. I became so focused and resentful that I ultimately decided to do something different; write, or paint, and move on. Because I needed a break from my humiliating and empty life. I believe that it was the bravest and the best thing I could have done. Amazingly, I now feel ecstatic with all I have accomplished so far.

### A sample of my poems and paintings

War, acrylic on paper Candle lady, acrylic on paper

Landscape, oil on canvas

Landscape, oil on canvas

In 2012, the above painting won the second prize in an art contest in Sweden

Don't be sad about the past

That time is gone

You'll never get that back with sadness

Think about tomorrow

Be happy, lively, and positive

Look forward to the sunrise

Life is too short, enjoy!

If you don't have the entire sea to yourself,

Content yourself with that little drop you have

You got what you were meant to have

Don't complain about the universe, that was destiny's doing

Life goes on whether you want it or not

Make sure that it does not go to waste

(Translated version of the poem written originally in Swedish)

The art exhibition at RICA gallery in Östermalm

 People on the run, acrylic on paper

The comet drifts from the sky, oil on canvas

The escape from hell in Iran to the paradise in Sweden, acrylic on paper

Fire, sun and sea, acrylic on canvas Deep in thoughts, watercolour on paper

Tree Woman, mixed media, acrylic and stone on canvas

Suddenly the tree stood alone in the desert, oil on canvas

I am a tree

I am a tree

I provide great shade

Enjoy my shade in peace and quiet

Why doesn't anyone look at my branches?

Why doesn't anyone rest in my shade?

I stand alone in the middle of the desert

Why is no eagle seen on my branch?

I have green leaves

I don't live on prey

I am others' servant

My shade is like a tent

In it, one takes shelter against the burning sun

In drizzle, it is like a cupola

From my branches, you can hang a swing

So that your children can have fun

My trunk is to be leaned against and relax,

Sit down safe close to me

Like sitting in a boat on a sea

I am others' servant

I am big like a pillar

Trust me, I won't bend

Lean on me, I will support you

Regardless of who you are

Whatever your taste or opinion

(Translated version of the poem written originally in Swedish)

Seated at sunset, mixed media, acrylic and stone on canvas

Solitude

I am silent but not because I am content

I am not a nagging type

There's already so many who are dissatisfied

Folk are already annoyed at others

I want to be rid of such things, and

I don't want to make it worse for myself,

because I'm already alone

Complaining doesn't solve anything for me

I must live with my misery

No one listens to me anyway

Who wants to hear my story?

Everyone has someone to hold on to, but

my heart shall suffer in its solitude

(Translated version of the poem written originally in Swedish)

Steps toward outer-space, oil on canvas

Women's situation in the Islamic regime of Iran, charcoal on canvas

  Let waterfall flow, acrylic on canvas

Magnolia trees in Thailand, watercolour on paper

Thank you!

Some people give only when asked.

You, like the waterfall,

flow forever with giving kindness.

Allowing your grace and wonder,

to fulfill the needs of all,

without asking for any return.

Thank you, for all that you do.

(Poem written originally in English)

Moonlight over the sea, oil on canvas

Destiny

Tell me what to do, destiny.

I am crushed by you, destiny.

My heart is bleeding for you, destiny.

You killed my feelings through life itself.

My last wish got burned like

every single wish I ever made.

I lost my love, my life and everything else.

Destiny, you were just standing there

by my side and watched me, doing nothing.

Destiny, you are cruel reality.

You have no feelings and you are like a dead soul.

I wished I could have joy, just once.

I wanted to sing a joyous melody about my love.

That was my world, my religion, my God.

but you destroyed my voice, my joy, my life.

Destiny, what are you?

(Poem written originally in English)

Acrylic on canvas

جاده اشگ

تو را دیدم میان قطره اشگم

که از چشمم روان غلطیده بر گونه

بدامانم در افتادی و نا پیدا و گم گشتی

نشان جای پایت را

سر انگشتان من دنبال میکرد

به روی گونه سردم

نمیدانم چرا...

نمیدانم چرا...

روزی تو را در چشم بنشاندم

میان مردم دیده

کنون دیگر جدا افتادی از یادم

کنون تنها و آواره اسیر پنجه بادم

A Persian poem from my first collection of poems published in 1999 under a Persian title (trans. Title: Love's echo).

Tears' path

I saw you between my tear drops

that ran from my eyes

down my cheeks,

to the ground and became invisible

My fingers followed your footsteps

on my cold cheeks

I do not know

I do not know

Why I had loved you one day

like the apple of my eye

Now you're gone from my life and my memory

Now I'm lost, a lone wanderer

(Translated version of a Persian poem from its Swedish rendition)

Beautiful beach in Greece, mixed media, acrylic and stone on canvas

An Immigrant

The word immigrant lacks colour

It's just black

'Black head'!

What does it really mean? Do you know?

Black! They say it again and again

'Black head'!

No that does not make sense

No that is not my name

I have a name other than

'Black head'!

I have my personality

I have, or I had? Character

Why am I called

'Black head'?

Even though my hair is not black

Even though my heart has the same colour as theirs

Even though my heart is kinder than theirs

Yet they call me

'Black head'!

Why am I here? Just to be called

'Black head'?

No, I am here to live in freedom and peace

In a white colour full of challenges

Filled with white joy and happiness

Not just black!

(Translated version of the poem written originally in Swedish)

In 2000, the poem won second prize in short story contest called "My dreams Kista"

### Pictures & articles, a narrative of my life

 Ängel gallery

 Four seasons, acrylic on canvas

 Ali and I at RICA gallery

Women have no place in the centre of the world

In suspense

Spring flowers

påstan, DN 2012, Exhibition at Hammarby sjöstadsredaktionen

Barkarby airport, photograph: Stefan Källstigen Barkarby airfield

A news report about Barkarby airfield's appeal to the politicians

SAS hangar

Husby library Rinkeby book fair

Persian-night at the Swedish Writers' House in Kavalla in Greece Maria Wine and I

Kista library Maj Britt Theorin

Minister of Immigration, Jan O. Karlsson, Hallonbergen 2002 2003, EMU conference at Husby Träff

Mona Sahlin Annika Billström

Anna Lind Minister of Education, Jan Björklund

EU Election Annika Gradin

Interviews in various Persian newspapers

Iranian newspaper in Washington DC

Article in USA Today, 17/07/2003

 http://www.usatoday.com/tech/webguide/hotsites/2003/2003-07-17-hotsites.htm

My children and I up on the Tochal mountain in north of Teheran

### A little about Iran's history & traditions

Iran (Persia until 1935), located in the Middle-East between the Caspian Sea to the north and the Persian Gulf and the Indian Ocean in the south. The country includes numerous islands in the Persian Gulf, including Kharg and its oil plant.

Iran has 70 million inhabitants.

The capital is Tehran with over 16 million inhabitants. Other important cities are Mashhad, Isfahan, Tabriz, Shiraz and Abadan.

Central plateau is surrounded by mountains that reach 13123-16404 feet height.

With the exception of the northern parts of Iran, the country's climate is very dry with hot summers and cold winters.

The country is densely populated to the northwest. The ethnic mix is significant.

About half of Iranians are of Persian descent and the official language is Persian (Farsi). In the north by the Caspian Sea, Gilakee is spoken by some while a greater number of people speak Turkish in Azerbaijan to the northwest, Turkmenistan and Baluchistan in the northeast and the southeast, whereas Kurdish is spoken in Kurdistan in the west. There is a small population (5% ) in the south that speaks Arabic.

Iran's economic backbone is oil and natural gas reserves, which are primarily located in the southwest of the Persian Gulf such as, in the north of Caspian Sea. The reserves are among the largest in the world. The country has a longstanding production of handicraft including carpet weaving. Iran dates back to the ancient Persian Empire, when it was at its greatest during the Hakhamaneshi dynasty (Cyrus, Darius), and it spread from the Balkan Peninsula to India.

Though Iran, or the ancient Persia, has a long history behind it, it lost its might in the 1800s at the hands of the Qajar dynasty who drove the country in to the ground in every aspect. For the sole purpose of securing their thrones, the Qajar kings even handed over a number of cities and provinces to Russia.

Persian language, also known as Farsi, is the most widely spoken of the Indo-Iranian languages, which falls under the Indo-European languages. It is the official language of Iran, and is widely spoken in Afghanistan, Tajikistan and Pamir Mountain region. Historically, Persian language was understood in an area that stretched from the Middle East to India.

Before Islam, Zoroastrianism was the dominant religion. Islam came to Iran in the 600s.

Zoroastrianism

Norouz is a custom in great Zoroastrian spirit. Zoroastrian was the national religion of the ancient Persia until the Arab conquest in the mid 600's. Free will is at the heart of Zoroastrianism. The distinction between good and evil is not created in and off itself, rather it comes about as a result of one's choices. In Zoroastrianism, two absolutes of good and evil are at conflict with one another. Ahura Mazda (Ormazd) stands for good while, evil is denoted by Ahriman (Angra Mainyu). Following that line of thought, Norouz symbolizes a partial victory in the ongoing battle between light (good) and darkness (evil). Norouz also coincides with the first day of the spring; a season of love and happiness.

The eternal fire

The belief in angels stems from Zoroastrianism. It was believed that with the arrival of spring, angels descend from heaven and bless the mortals. In the old days, people used to hold the fire ceremony up on their rooftops so that the angels would find their homes and bless them. As a side note, the fire ceremony is, nowadays, held in open places. Amongst the four elements, fire was held sacred in Zoroastrianism. To that effect, altars were built where the eternal fire could remain burning day in and day out under the care of the "Mager."

Story of Norouz, "a new day"

When the King of kings, Jamshid, taught his people the art of war, weaving, agriculture, reading, construction, medicine, shipping, and metalwork, he took the throne and celebrated his successes. Kings from around the world gathered at his palace to praise him, and to join the celebration. They called that day "Norouz" and it means a new day. Since then, celebrations are held on that special day which is a legacy from King Jamshid. This is how the book Shahnameh (trans. the Book of the Kings) describes the advent of Norouz.

On the whole, there are four celebrations that mark the highest occasions in the Iranian tradition and they are as follows.

Norouz - Undoubtedly the most important celebration for Iranians which spans about 13 days. The festivities begin on the Tuesday before Norouz with fire ceremony referred to in Farsi as Chaharshanbe Souri, during which one hops over a series of small stack of burning wood, and asks the fire for its warmth and its glowing colour. The new year usually begins on 20th or 21st March (the 1st day of the month of Farvardin in Iran).

Tirgan - Mid-summer celebration is a water festival.

Mehregan - Autumn and harvest festival occur at the autumnal equinox.

Shab-e Yalda - A celebration of the winter solstice.

The day before Norouz, a so-called New Year's table is set. The collection of the components used in this specific type of table setting is referred to as Haft-Sin in Persian, which translates into seven things that start with the letter 'S'.

Seven 'S'

I look in the mirror, I look happy

Hyacinths (Sonbol) and tulips

Apples (Seeb) and garlic (Seer)

Vinegar (Serkeh) and green grass (Sabzeh)

Rowanberry (Senjed)

The goldfish and the sour orange

(Samanu*) and sumac (Somaq)

A nicely arranged basket of fruits

Gold and silver coins (Sekkeh)

Persian cookies and pictures of the family

Everything is on the table, all names that begin with S

There must be seven S

It is intended for the table of the

New year

A table set for the New Year

My New Year . . . Nowroz/Norouz

Yours is set up differently and at a different time

But my New Year begins in spring

on March 21st

far, far away from reality

Mother, father, siblings and

cousins are not here and

I'm not there either

The distance comes between us

The table does not mean anything to me

Nowadays, no doubt

I'm away from the real

Seven-S set table

(Translated version of the poem written originally in Swedish)

* A kind of dish with juice of germinating wheat or malt mixed with flour.

Things that must be on the table are the following:

Senjed - a kind of sweet fruit that grows in hot climate. The fruit symbolizes patience.

Somaq - a sour spice that represents good wishes for a plentiful year.

Sabzeh - a tray of the sprouts of wheat or lentil. It signifies the wish for a bounteous crop.

Seeb - red apple to mark happiness.

Sonbol - hyacinth, which stands for beauty.

Seer - garlic is meant as wishes for good health.

Serkeh - vinegar indicates the movement of life.

In addition, there should be:

A mirror, which reflects purity.

Painted eggs, which are a sign of life.

Hafez's or Ferdousi's books of poems and narratives, respectively, as a means to celebrate the richness of Iranian culture. In a more religious setting, the Koran or other Holy Books.

Goldfish, cookies and nuts are also common parts of the New Year's table.

The New Year's meal consists of grilled fish or smoked fish (mostly white fish), and rice that is mixed with dill, parsley, chives and fresh garlic. At the turn of the year, usually the whole family is seated around the Haft-sin table. With best wishes for the new year, gifts are exchanged between adults while, the younger ones receive, customarily, money in the form of newly printed bills. According to the Iranian custom, visits must be made to relatives and friends during the New Year's holiday. During the first five days of the new year, it is considered courteous for the young ones to pay a visit to their elders before they receive a visit from them.

The thirteenth day of the new year (i.e., the 2nd of April) is called Seezdah-be-dar which marks the end of the New Year festivities. Many Iranians go on picnics or other leisurely outings with family and friends. Also on this day, jokes are played on others in much the same spirit as that of the April's fools' day.

### Previously published by Akram Monfared-Arya:

### I have participated in:

Kista Anthology, Kista district administration (2002)

Poetry on a string, Kista district administration (2002)

Documentary by Simone Aaberg Kærn, Danish pilot and artist (2002)

Life puzzle, Career choice and life's goal by Ebba Laurin (2004)

Women's lives in Husby: A depiction of gender, location & ethnicity by Carina Listerborn (2005)

Interviews on Swedish radio stations

UR, "Ramp om historia" programme

SVT, "Plus ekonomi" programme

Poetry online by Författares Bokmaskin (2006)

Poetry in one day by Författares Bokmaskin (2009)

TV4's cooking contest programme "Seven-thirty at my place" (2009)

Poetry in one day by Författares Bokmaskin (2010)

"Seven-thirty at my place" Cookbook, Bonnier Facts (2010)

SVT Dr. Åsa programme (2010)

### Would you like to know more about me?

Please visit my website at:

http://www.arya.se

Or refer to Wikipedia:

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Akram_Monfared_Arya>

Follow me on Twitter:

<https://twitter.com/#!/FlyingPoet>

Join me on Facebook:

<http://www.facebook.com/#!/profile.php?id=1834267705>

<http://www.facebook.com/?ref=logo#!/profile.php?id=724582985>

I am a member of the Swedish Writers' Association, and

Visual Arts Copyright Society in Sweden (BUS)

For public speaking engagements, please contact me at:

arya@arya.se

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