Butterfly Stitching Read online

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Baba lifted his face from his palms, smacked Amoo Hassan on the back of the head. “You got yourself caned again?”

  “I—”

  “What did you do this time?”

  “Well, I—”

  “For God’s sakes, Hassan, you didn’t even bother to bandage it?”

  “Is it infected?” Maman said, running to the medicine cabinet.

  “Baba jan, doesn’t dessert sound nice?” Sahar tried to change the subject and distract the crazy adults the same way they so often distracted the twins when they were in temper-tantrum mode.

  He paid her no attention. “When did this happen? It’s only been a few days since we saw you last.”

  “Come, take off your shirt,” Maman demanded. Amoo Hassan complied quickly, making painful faces as Maman dabbed an ointment on the gash.

  “Were you jailed?”

  “I couldn’t—”

  “Why didn’t you call me? I thought I was a brother to you.”

  “Listen, it was just—”

  “Maman made her famous saffron rice pudding!” Sahar gave a small pretend smile. “I could smell it when I went to shut the oven off and it smelled very yummy.”

  “Does your mother know?”

  “Yes, she—”

  “How can you do this to her?”

  “With her heart!” Maman placed tape on the gauze pad.

  “Really, Hassan, I can’t believe you’d be so foolish.” Baba’s hand, jittery with angst, hit his water glass and tipped it into the stew bowl.

  “Baba!” Sahar gasped.

  “It’s okay.” Maman grabbed the glass. “It’s just water.” She moved the stew, picked up the fallen napkin and wiped the water.

  “Samira, I’m sorry,” Baba said.

  “The stew was too thick anyway!”

  Raumbod began crying. His older brother followed suit.

  “I think they’ve just had too much for one day.” Maman went over to the twins and kissed their wet cheeks.

  The mood eventually calmed enough for them to actually listen to the story of how Amoo Hassan was arrested by the revolutionary guards for wearing jeans and break dancing in public. He was handcuffed and bumped his head as he was forced into the back of a rusted van that was full of young people arrested for morality crimes.

  “We all jumped half a meter into the air every time the lousy Iranian-built engine went over a pothole. Putt-putt noises all the way to the station. There was this one couple in the van, scared to death!”

  “You mean like a boy-girl couple Amoo jan?” Sahar asked.

  “M’hm. They were on a date, I guess, hoping they wouldn’t get caught. The girl cried the whole way there.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “I don’t know. They separated us when we got to the station, then they took me to a room and left me there by myself for a long time. Hours. They took off my shoes, socks and T-shirt, and pushed me down on a chair—right on a wet spot. Probably blood from the last guy who was in that chair. It smelled like cat pee and stale cheese. ”

  Cat pee? Sahar did not know what that smelled like. She thought of Riri in all of his glorious pink and gray, walking around the interrogation room and peeing on the legs of the table. They beat people in these rooms, Sahar thought. People bleed in these rooms. She pictured the dried blood stains in the creases of the wooden chair.

  “Did they have guns?” Reza asked.

  “Big ones.”

  Faceless uniforms with cartoonishly large machine guns marched in front of Sahar’s eyes. She could see them pushing her amoo. She pictured Riri secretly peeing a little on their shoes before leaving the room. What a good cat!

  “What’d they ask you?” Maman asked.

  “Well, I don’t even remember. There was lots of yelling and the whole time I was just trying to think of something to tell them. Some excuse for the jeans and the break dancing. I thought maybe I should say that my wife died and there was no one to do my laundry and I borrowed these jeans from the next door neighbor.”

  Even Sahar knew there was no way the Morality Police would believe that.

  “Or maybe I should say that I wore them to show people how ridiculous it was to wear such an ugly garment. Or maybe I could say that my body was convulsing from my Tourette’s syndrome and I wasn’t breakdancing at all.”

  Amoo Hassan hurled his arms sharply into the air and pivoted his head from side to side, mimicking Tourette’s symptoms. Sahar and her brothers laughed but Maman and Baba did not.

  “But I bet even those guys watch illegal breakdancing videos!” Amoo said. “Hell, how else would they even know what I was doing? But at this point, I was terrified of a caning.”

  “I think it’s become their favorite hobby now,” Maman said. “No need for the hassle and burden of a trial.”

  “They don’t even take people to the police station anymore, you know,” Baba said. “They get it over and done with right then and there on the street.”

  “So,” Amoo continued. “I started to think about falling to my knees and apologizing. Profusely. Telling them that I hated wearing the jeans anyway because the denim was too heavy for the hot summer air. By the way, it really was. Of course, that was all stupid. There was no excuse, much less my lame ones that could get me out of it without a caning.”

  They had even caned the bottoms of his feet—a sight that Sahar was thankfully spared that night—so that he could “feel the painful sting of the West with every step.”

  “But you should’ve known you’d get caught!” Sahar said.

  “I did.”

  “Well, then why’d you do it?” Sahar could not understand. “Jeans and breakdancing aren’t that much fun. You knew you’d get caught!”

  “That’s exactly it Sahar jan, my dear one. You hit the nail on the head. I wore the jeans because I knew I’d get caught.”

  Sahar nodded, proud of hitting the nail on the head, though she did not know what that meant.

  “It was a statement, you see. A protest. The baboon who graced my shoulder’s presence with his cowardly whip was the real victim, not me. Something your baba simply wouldn’t understand.”

  Sahar was afraid she did not understand, either.

  “I understand that there are many things to protest,” Baba said, and Sahar heard the concern there. He moved his hands through his graying hair, trying to hide the tears welling in his hazel eyes. “And I understand the value of protest. But do you really think that wearing a pair of jeans, getting yourself imprisoned and caned, hurting your mother—who’s been like a mother to me too—and advancing the poor woman’s heart condition will have any impact on the social and political situation of this country?”

  Maman touched Amoo’s good shoulder with concern. “All these things do is hurt you and your family.”

  “And now you’re definitely blacklisted. This has gotta be your third or fourth arrest. Before you know it, they’ll hang you in the town square for their own amusement. Don’t think they won’t.” Baba paused for a moment then added, “They’ll do it at the drop of a hat.”

  These words rang through Sahar’s mind.

  Hang. Noose. Circle of rope wet with the tears of unsuspecting men and women.

  “Then let them.”

  “Hassan!” Maman said. “How can you say such a thing? And in front of the children!”

  “This is the best example for these children.” Amoo Hassan was practically shouting. “We must fight for our freedom in whatever small ways we can. We cannot submit! We simply cannot submit!”

  Baba looked very worried. “The problem with you, Hassan, is that you make your statements for your own sake.”

  “I make them for the sake of change!”

  “You do no such thing. You suffer under the delusion that you’re actually making some kind of difference with these demented antics.”

  “I am making a difference.”

  “The sting of the cane fools your
heart, which feels as guilty about the situation in our country as the rest of our hearts, into thinking that you’re doing something to fight. You’re not doing anything useful.”

  “Armin’s right, Hassan azizam,” Maman said. “The best way for you to get your revenge is to educate yourself. Make something of yourself. Place yourself in a position of power.”

  “Or go abroad where essays and articles written by Iranians actually have a chance of publication. Do your part in informing the masses abroad of the situation at home.”

  “All this talk of leaving,” Amoo Hassan accused. “It isn’t about me at all, is it?”

  “That’s got nothing—”

  “Don’t think that I don’t know about your plans to move to Chicago!” Amoo Hassan said. “Mother told me about it months ago.”

  “Hassan, I know you’re disappointed that we’re thinking of leaving . . .” Maman said gently, “. . . but surely you don’t believe the anti-Western slogans marketed to you by the very government you’re protesting?”

  “Oh, he seems to be doing just that!” Baba said, ruining the calmer tone Maman had just created. “I can’t believe you’ve bought into the garbage.”

  Maman always told Sahar that Baba’s tactlessness was part of his charm, but Amoo did not take as kindly to the coarse honesty. The lines on his face forced themselves into crooked wrinkles and his fists clenched.

  “What an absurd thing to say! Of course I don’t buy what the turbans are selling.”

  “But you just—”

  “But you, you think that because you abhor everything they stand for, then because they say it, the opposite of it must be true. If the mullahs criticize the West, then it must be Heaven on Earth, streets paved with gold and all that jazz!”

  “No I don’t think that!”

  “How about America’s role in the demise of our democracy? Did you forget that? Or the weapons the Americans are selling right now to that dictator next door who uses them to transport and fire his chemical weapons on our people? Forget about our people. He’s killing his own. Those poor Kurds . . . using American helicopters to spread the chemicals. You forget that?”

  “I don’t forget anything.”

  “You seem to, because you turn a blind eye to these things, to all that they’ve taken away from us. You run to them. Cry to them. Kiss their feet and beg them to let you be one of them.”

  “Hassan, it’s very easy for you to say all of this. You don’t have a family. You don’t have a daughter.”

  This made Sahar look up at her maman with confusion. She was trying to stay quiet, knowing that if she called no attention to herself she might be allowed to stay as the adults argued. But now it seemed they were blaming her for their move to America and she had to protest. “Maman, what did I do? I don’t even want to move!” In response, Maman quickly rushed her and her brothers into the small room they shared at the end of the hall. The twins were thrown on their bunk beds and they were all instructed that if they sat there and colored their picture books obediently and quietly, their maman would bring their rice pudding in just a few minutes and they could even eat it in bed.

  Sahar did not understand why the adults had rejected her. She sat motionless for a while, but the twins quickly decided that fun-filled adventures of the world of coloring and rice pudding was not such a bad way to end the night. They took out their crayons as Sahar put her exiled ear to the thin door and listened.

  “She has a future here!” she heard her amoo say. “University enrolment of women has increased dramatically since the revolution. Soon, it may even surpass male enrolment.”

  “Hassan, you know as well as I do that this system they call ‘education’ is run by ignorant zealots. My friend Homayoun’s son, who got a very high score on the Concord Exam for medical school, had his interview at the ministry of Education last month. And do you know what they asked him during the interview? Do you think they quizzed him on the periodic table or the names of the muscles in the shoulder? No! They asked him if he’d made the hajj to Mecca before and how often he went to mosque! His admission into medical school, at a time of war when we’re short on doctors, was denied because they didn’t like the way he practiced his religion!”

  “I don’t understand you, Armin. You hide your alcohol and your dancing from them, like we all do, lie about everything they don’t like. So what’s the big deal? Just lie during the interviews like everyone else!”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Nothing’s easy here. We do what we have to do. But it’s your country, and you can stay here and make a difference. Your daughter can work with other feminists and lawyers. Or serve as a doctor for women’s needs.”

  “Even if she does, to what end? She can get all the degrees she wants but is still only allowed to work if her husband lets her.”

  “She won’t marry someone who—”

  “Many don’t know who they’re marrying until they’re married,” Maman said.

  There was a brief pause. Then Baba said, “That’s right. By the way, let’s not forget about the rockets falling on our heads! If we stay here, we may not even survive this war. It’s already killed a million people.”

  “You know as well as I do that both sides’ resources won’t stretch for another year or two. The war won’t last forever. Anyway, if that’s your reason, then you should simply exit Iran on a travel visa and come back after the war, but I know that’s not what interests you.”

  “Okay, Hassan jan,” Sahar heard Maman interrupt. “You make some valid points. It was true that the Americans betrayed us, but our own leaders did worse. And if I had to choose between raising my kids in the West, where such statements could be uttered outdoors in demonstration and without persecution, and living here, where our will is no longer our own, I’d choose the West in a heartbeat, and if you had kids, you’d do the same.”

  “And me too,” Baba said. “Even if it means leaving my degree behind and driving a taxi to support my family. I’ll say goodbye to my home. It’s not as though there is that much left here for me anyway.”

  “What do you mean? Oh, you mean because Gita died.”

  “Hassan!” Baba said.

  “Well that’s what you mean, isn’t it? I’m sorry, Samira, but we both know Gita’s death really shook him up.”

  A few moments of silence followed, and Sahar thought she heard Maman crying. She wondered who Gita was, or when she had died. Neither of her parents had ever mentioned her before.

  “Oh, Samira,” Amoo Hassan said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dig up old wounds.”

  “Well you did,” Baba said.

  “Don’t be sorry, Hassan jan,” Maman said. “It’s not your fault. It’s just, with both of her children gone . . . her dying like that . . . I didn’t go to the funeral. How can I forgive myself?”

  “Samira jan, my sweet wife, remember we both made the decision that you wouldn’t go to the funeral. Together. In light of the circumstances, it was the right decision. It was—Hassan, what the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “You know, maybe it’s that I’m angry. Yes, Gita’s gone, God rest her soul. And so are Shabnam and Hamid. Does that mean you have to abandon the rest of us who’re still here?”

  “It’s not about you,” Baba said. “I’m doing this for my daughter. For my wife. To teach my sons to treat women as equals.”

  “But don’t you see? You can teach that to your sons right here. You can teach them to fight for change.”

  “Be reasonable, Hassan. It’s not as though we live in a democracy. For God’s sake, people are getting shot on the streets for little more than carrying a bottle of vodka. You can’t possibly think we can change any of this.”

  “Armin’s right, Hassan. It isn’t as though the mullahs are preaching ‘Death to America’ because the Americans ousted Mosaddegh and reinstated the monarchy. They’re not chanting for democracy, but against it. They’re more tyrannical than any monarch, ten times worse than the Shah. The nu
mber of political prisoners has skyrocketed! How can we raise our children here?”

  “Samira jan, I know. But I believe that even here change is possible. More importantly, and most relevant to this conversation, I believe that Armin can make a difference. With his words, he has the most powerful sword of all.”

  As the adults’ argument turned into more of a conversation, their voices grew softer and Sahar had difficulty hearing them, but it was something about how Baba was a great poet before the revolution. People read his work and maybe he should start writing poems again. Something about how Baba could start riots with his words. It all was very frightening. The voices got loud and angry again.

  She heard her amoo say, “But do you do anything . . .? No! You turn your back . . . save yourself.”

  “I won’t let you talk to me this way.” This was Baba. “The truth is that you know nothing about what I do and don’t do. There are things about me that you don’t know, Hassan.”

  “What do you mean? You . . . comfortable office as a civil servant . . . oh, I’m sorry . . . engineer. You stand idly . . . other writers, some . . . your classmates . . . write junk . . . puppet masters who pay to move their lips and speak rehearsed, forced words . . . cowardly to you?”

  Sahar stopped listening, tired of trying to hear. Tired of trying to understand.

  She sat and colored with her brothers, as she was told to do, and argued over whether or not Reza was over-using the red crayon.

  Coloring and arguing over crayons were simple things.

  5

  It was a Thursday. That meant family gathering and parties, given Fridays were the only off-day of the six-day work week. For the last several weeks, Sahar’s family had partied at many family and friends’ homes, eaten their food, drunk their liquor, and danced in their living rooms. Maman insisted that they pay back for their imposition on others by hosting their own party tonight. And so they were.