Rising from the Shadows : Revolution, War and The Journey that Made Me 9781920688929, 9781920688905

Citation preview

Saeed Fassaie’s book gives a compelling account of his life through revolution, war and immigration; the hardships and sacrifices which stretch far back into his past, like footprints on his long and extraordinary journey. A young political activist, after the 1979 revolution in Iran, the Islamic Regime mercilessly hunted him. Unable to complete his schooling, his months in exile exposed him to an education of a different kind. Ultimately, though, it was his experience of war that irrevocably changed him as a man, burning away the last vestiges of youthful naivety. Saeed’s ambitions in his home country were blocked at every turn on ideological grounds. Despite the odds, he eventually completed his tertiary education and went on to become a competent engineer in Iran, but his past political involvement continued to undermine his career prospects. Finally, he turned his attention outward and migrated to Australia. This engrossing story is also full of brilliant moments of insight into the complex psychological traumas in his dealing with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, born from the death of a friend and the harsh realities of war. He reveals his astonishing courage to face, and eventually overcome, the cruel demons of war that had plunged him into a world of shadows.

To the memory of Dr Claire Weekes, the late Australian mental health writer and physician. You live on through the lives of the countless sufferers your works continue to help. I humbly thank you for penning some of the most insightful and liberating lines I have ever read. I also acknowledge the author, her book Complete Self Help for Your Nerves, and HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty Limited for permission to quote from the book on page 298.

R I S I N G FRO M TH E S HADOWS A MEMOIR Revolution, war and the journey that made me

SAE E D FAS SAI E

Copyright © 2015 Saeed Fassaie The rights of Saeed Fassaie as authors of this work have been asserted in line with the Australian Copyright Act. First published 2015 by Richmond Ventures Pty Ltd PO Box 635 Balmain NSW 2041 Australia Email: [email protected] All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages of less than 200 words, for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means now invented or invented in the future without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. National Library of Australia Cataloguing in Publication Data Creator: Fassaie, Saeed, author Title: Rising From the Shadows: Revolution, war and the journey that made me /Saeed Fassaie ISBN: 9781920688905 (paperback) Subjects: Iranians—Australia—Biography Iranians—Migrations Iran­ —History—1979 Dewey Number: 955.054092 Additional ISBNS: 978-1-920688-91-2 (eBook) 978-1-920688-92-9 (ePDF) Printed in Australia by Ligare Book Printers Richmond Publishing

CONTENTS

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

Foreword by Dr Charlie Teo  Prologue  Fugitive  Returning Home  Hanna  War  Shahab  Turkey  Bucharest  Admission  University  Migration  A New Beginning  First Job in Oz  My Aussie Friend  Emerging from the Shadows  The Sun Still in The Sky  Epilogue  Acknowledgments 

7 9 13 45 59 75 105 125 141 159 179 197 221 235 255 267 301 317 321

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FORE WORD Your first meeting with Saeed is one that most people would never forget. His greeting is warm and genuine, and within a short period of time, you get the impression he will be a friend for life. He wears his heart on his sleeve, yet his manner is rather reserved. In conversation, he is mostly the listener and you welcome an empathic ear. There is something about him that makes you want to pour out your deepest secrets, knowing that he will listen and digest all that you give him and produce sage advice. I wasn’t quite sure what it was about Saeed that created this trust and intimacy until I read his book. Saeed gives a very honest and raw account of many of the events in his life, which he feels contributed to the person he is now. He describes his weaknesses and strengths, his talents and his foibles and, in an amazingly accurate medical description, the albatross around his neck that has crippled him, defined him, strengthened him and which he has now conquered . . . or has he? I remember pausing at one section of the book and thinking that every politician, every refugee, every soldier, every doctor, every social worker, every school child . . . actually, every Australian, needs to read this book. If you ever thought for a second that immigrants and asylum seekers didn’t add to the richness and diversity of our country, this book forces you to re-evaluate your prejudices and preconceptions. Saeed was born and raised a Muslim. His daughter is a Christian. He befriended and embraced a Jehovah’s Witness. He describes his spirituality now as all accepting and non-

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judgemental, and if, after reading this book, you want to join the Church of Saeed, you won’t be alone! Caught up in the routine of life, many of us obsess over the trivialities of daily living. We lose touch with what is really important for making the most of our short time on Earth. This manifests in negative ways such as road rage, street rage, surf rage, office rage, intolerance of those less fortunate and worshipping of those more fortunate. Saeed’s narrative is so gripping, you walk several miles in his shoes, and before long, the trivialities of life fade away. I commend this book to anyone who has ever felt alone, who has ever had their heart broken, who has thought that life could never get any worse, who bears the heavy weight of emotional uncertainty, who wonders what life is like ‘on the other side’, who wants to know how we might achieve peace in the Middle East. This is the book for you.

Charlie Teo Conjoint Associate Professor University of New South Wales Yeoh Ghim Seng Visiting Professor, National University of Singapore Director, Centre for Minimally Invasive Neurosurgery Founder, Cure Brain Cancer Foundation Prince of Wales Private Hospital

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PROLOGUE

Our private discussion has become increasingly heated and emotional as we walk down the street. Suddenly we are both thrown into the air as an explosion tears through the familiar George Street bustle. My head and chest are throbbing painfully, but I manage to stagger to my feet and look for Darius. I find him lying in front of a shop. He is dead. I moan, ‘No, no, no. Oh God!’ The dream is so powerful that I wake gasping for breath with my heart trying to hammer its way out of my chest. It seems so real that it takes me a few seconds to realise it is, without doubt, a dream. I get out of bed and drink a full glass of water. I wipe the sweat from my forehead and around my neck. My breathing settles down but my heartbeat is so rapid I begin to feel a sharp pain in my chest. Not knowing what to do or what to expect, worry closes my throat. In normal circumstances, I would simply go to a doctor for a check-up, but I know it is

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all related to that awful dream. Besides, it is 2 a.m. and I don’t have a car to drive to the nearby hospital. I turn on the light in the living area, sit down and begin consciously monitoring my staccato heartbeat — an ungovernable palpitation. After a seeming eternity, it calms down a little and I go back to my bed, but sleep eludes me. As dawn reveals itself, I leave my bed tired and completely bewildered. What is happening to me? I ask myself. It is one of the worst nights in my entire life and I desperately want to forget about it. However, despite my efforts, intrusive memories fill my head again: the war and the explosions, Darius’s dead body, and the blood — rivers of it — flooding the landscape of my tortured imagination. I don’t seem to have any control over them. I don’t like them, I don’t want them but the more I try, the more forceful they become. What is this dreadful thing? I wonder, holding my head in my hands. The following morning, after two sleeping tablets have granted me a solid sleep, I feel better. But the disturbing visions ambush me once more while I am taking a shower. I wish I could have stayed asleep for a few more precious hours. I wish I could have had a longer break from the disturbing thoughts and feelings that are following me like my own shadow. I wish I could delete that part of my memory like deleting a file on my computer. I don’t want to share this with my wife, Susan, who is already struggling with life in this new country and is very fragile. I just can’t risk it. I suddenly feel so tired and alone, like a solitary hiker lost in the bush. The weight of the unbearable thoughts and feelings suddenly resurfacing from the past, added to the stress of the past few months, is dragging me down. I find myself sitting in my bedroom alone, feeling hopeless and helpless. For the first time in Australia the dam of my emotions bursts and a torrent of tears streams out. I cry

PROLOGUE

like a child, sad and disheartened. I am lost, with no idea of how to find my way back to the person I used to be. That night, for the second time, I am hit by a terrifying nightmare and I wake up in a panic, awash with sweat. My heart is racing so fast that I am worried it will burst at any moment. I become very conscious of my heartbeat and start to monitor it to ensure it isn’t getting any worse. Gradually my heart becomes an obsession; I find it difficult to concentrate on normal activities, to perceive the outside world when my eye is fastened on a microscope, but I can’t seem to pull away. I can feel my mental health deteriorating each day and I’m not getting enough sleep. Above all, I am terrified by the flashbacks and nightmares of war, especially Darius’s death. Often I feel as if I am on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown. I take refuge in the library. I find a couple of books by Anthony Robbins and learn about beliefs, values, goal-setting, and the power of my thoughts. Unconsciously, my mind links everything I read to my palpitations and chest pain; this makes me more obsessed about them and I become more agitated. It is frustrating. I am trying my utmost to control these terrors but my reward is more heartbreak and bewilderment. I am struggling with an unidentifiable monster within me over which I have no power. It is after another terrible flashback and panic attack that I go to the hospital emergency ward at midnight for a check-up. I am terribly worried about my heart, which is beating in my throat at twice the normal rate and I can’t seem to gain any control over it. I feel incapacitated and completely despondent. After going through all the tests, I am sent to the heart specialist with my test results indicating that there is no heart problem, apart from a minor skipped heartbeat and slightly abnormal electrocardiograph reading — nothing clinically significant. The outcome is a relief and I can

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go home knowing that at least my heart is healthy. But I am still too aware of my bodily sensations and terribly afraid of them. I have become unbearably sensitive to the noise of heavy vehicles, thunderstorms, and violence in movies. I stop watching movies with an M or MA rating because I don’t want to be startled by violent scenes. I avoid arguments with people at work or my family at home. I no longer go running or swimming, avoiding anything that will potentially increase my heartbeat. Once I notice that my heartbeat is a bit fast, I begin to fear that it will get worse. This causes my heart to beat even faster, which causes me to fear a looming heart attack. My sensitised body and its acute reactions to traumatic memories are ruining my life, and I can feel my store of emotional energy being depleted. I am afraid, I am exhausted, I am lonely, I am paralysed. Increasingly it feels as though I am stranded in the middle of a frozen pond, unwilling to take a step in any direction for fear of cracking the ice. My recovery, if you can call it that, is painfully slow. While I know intellectually that my mind is becoming more engaged with the world around me, a terrible beast still lurks beneath the surface of my thoughts. Although I don’t know it, I am already on a complicated journey of pain, suffering, selfdiscovery and recovery. Here is my story.

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1 . FUGITIVE

‘Down! Get down!’ ‘Hurry!’ ‘They’re shooting from the building on the corner!’ Ali screamed. Instinctively I dived behind the kerb. ‘People are down everywhere!’ Ali was hiding behind a planter box on the footpath. It was almost dark and the Revolutionary Guard and the militia were dishing up a generous and lethal serve of bullets. Frantic protestors were running for their lives. That dive had saved me. My ears were full of the agonised cries of a man after a bullet tore through his leg. He’d fallen to the pavement about ten metres from me, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, blood seeping from the wound and a look of terror on his face as he started to crawl towards the kerb. Within a couple of minutes there was no one upright. They had either escaped the danger zone or were sheltering behind walls, planter boxes or the kerb. Except for the groaning of the injured man, I could hear nothing in my vicinity.

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Never had I been in such a perilous situation. The soldiers were merciless, firing at anything that moved. My eyes stung and watered from the mix of tear gas and smoke billowing from blazing tyres scattered along the road. I could almost smell the terror. Ali was only metres from me. ‘Hey,’ he hissed. ‘It’s dark enough. Let’s get out of here before they arrest us.’ I had met him for the first time during the protest, but he behaved like a natural leader and I followed him without hesitation. ‘What about the guy who’s been shot?’ ‘No time, come on.’ I surveyed my surroundings to ensure there were no militia gunmen in sight, leapt to my feet and bolted for my life. The blessed darkness of early evening masked our escape, but the groaning of that injured man still plays in the black box of my head. That day, 20 June 1981, was one of the bloodiest days of the freedom movement in Iran. Up to half a million people protested in Tehran against the clerical coup that had unseated the democratically elected president, Bani-Sadr. The revolution in 1979 had overthrown the Shah, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, who had come to power in 1941 after his father, Reza Shah, was forced to abdicate by British and Russian forces, which had invaded Iran after Reza Shah insisted on remaining neutral during the Second World War. From the beginning, the new Shah’s closeness to the West caused problems, and although he introduced economic, social and political reforms to modernise and secularise Iran, he began to lose support. Many Iranian people were disgusted by the way America and the United Kingdom exploited Iranian resources and crude oil. The disgust and hatred were palpable in street protests during the revolution. Many Iranian intellectuals believed that America had betrayed the Iranian people repeatedly.

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Dissenters rallied behind the exiled Islamic revolutionary Ayatollah Khomeini, and during the late 1970s, strikes and protests eventually drove the Shah from Iran. In April 1979, Iran was declared an Islamic republic and Ayatollah Khomeini was appointed Iran’s leader for life. After the 1979 revolution, some believed that the last betrayal by the West was to facilitate the clergy’s rise to power. America feared that the Soviet Union was exerting too much pressure on Iran, so they supported a ‘safer’ option: the clergy, who would never collaborate with communists or the Soviet Union. For a brief period after the revolution, Iranian people enjoyed free speech, and parties from the extreme left to the far right were free to engage in political activities. Leftist parties were actively campaigning in the central streets of Tehran and other big cities; banners were prominent and supporters were trying to engage passersby in discussions by handing out leaflets or newsletters. University students were on the frontline of the battle for freedom and democracy. But before long the regime curbed the political parties and their activities, and any uprisings were violently put down. The Islamic regime believed that street protests caused instability and posed a threat to the establishment. Therefore, they sponsored militia groups to attack and break up protests. The regime gradually became more violent and the security forces arrested as many activists as they could. The terror of Kristallnacht in Nazi Germany in 1938 is well documented and remains a barb in the heart of Western consciousness to this day. But I wonder how many people know of the terrors we were subjected to by our government during those terrible years? I had witnessed at first hand the extraordinary and tumultuous weeks and months of the revolution, but my transition to political activist was a gradual one. I became

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involved in heated debates at my high school, after listening to the various viewpoints on the regime’s policies, which were rapidly changing the way we lived in Iran. This drew me into the debates, which were often so heated they sounded more like arguments. There were many parties active at the time, but those who supported the regime were more dominant and better organised because of the support they received from the powerful Islamic Students Council. Followers of larger parties like the Mojahedin-e-Khalgh Organisation (People’s Mojahedin or MKO), also appeared to be disciplined with a strict manifesto. Moreover, there were several smaller parties ardently striving to make themselves heard in the development of a new system of government in Iran. It seemed that every minute of the day, followers of the various parties were enthusiastically promoting their visions for the future. The majority of students were indifferent, but I found it impossible to walk away and ignore them. The debates went beyond just social or political issues; they were very much about ideologies such as Socialism and Marxism, many of which were new to me. Other concepts like Hegel’s dialectics sounded very appealing. Despite identifying Islam as their ideology, the MKO had surprisingly accepted Marxism, which appealed to the young who were at odds with the traditional Islam they had known. The regime’s followers considered the MKO as blasphemers, due to their blending of Islam with leftist principles. The air was brimming with enchanting ideas and philosophies, which were magnets for any inquisitive soul, and so I started reading and participating in debates. It was all so intoxicating. I was familiar with traditional Islam from both home and school, and now I wanted to explore other ideas. The time I had allotted in the past to studying maths and physics I now devoted to reading newspapers and books written by

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contemporary Muslim authors such as Dr Ali Shariati, who was one of the most influential thinkers in modern Iran. The few public libraries in our vicinity were limited, so I went to bookshops in search of new books and pamphlets. Those opposite Tehran University were likened to be the source of all wisdom and knowledge in Iran, places frequented by book lovers and political activists. The intoxicating atmosphere in those stores seemed to crackle with the sparks of intellectualism. Such sparks, fanned by the winds of youth, had the potential to cause an inferno. One day, buoyed by the giddy new world of idealism, I decided to accompany a friend of mine, Assad, to a convention run by the MKO. It was held at an oval in Tehran University. The atmosphere was exhilarating — more than a thousand zealous young supporters (even girls!) were cheering and singing along with the songs and anthems. There were electrifying speeches in the spirit of revolution that strongly appealed to our sense of nationalism, Islamic beliefs, and the hope for a new Iran; a utopia vaguely began to form in my imagination. Without even trying, I found myself in sync with them and didn’t hesitate to attend the following event when Assad suggested it. This was the start of my political awakening in those turbulent months after the 1979 revolution. In no time I was selling MKO’s newspapers at busy street intersections in Tehran in the morning before school, and distributing flyers in the afternoon or late at night. It was evident that the MKO relied heavily on young and inexperienced boys and girls to build support and expand its influence. They were tremendously successful. Right after the revolution, the Islamic regime formed the Basij militia, which created bases at every mosque. The Basiji included a wider range of ages and they adhered fanatically to

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the traditional teachings of Islam and exhibited an unswerving loyalty to the revolution’s leader, Khomeini. In order to counter and undermine the organised protests and campaigns by the MKO and other left parties, the regime began to use its militia to prevent the spread of opposition propaganda. Soon confrontations between the supporters of leftist parties and the regime-backed militia turned to violent clashes. Gradually, the street banners were torn down and the debates were hushed. The streets were becoming a more dangerous place. I was disappointed to hear about the MKO’s retaliations, which included the assassination of a few militia leaders. Luckily, Romain Rolland’s books and Gandhi’s teachings had already helped me form my own principles about violence, and although I was still very young, I couldn’t find any justification for such violent actions. At this stage, Saeid G was one of my best friends, and he followed a party with a socialist and communist ideology, Organisation of Fedaian (Minority). I turned my attention to a realm where no god could claim authority. And yes, I started studying Marxism-Leninism. Within a few months I read several books and attended many presentations to learn about this courageous creed that had allegedly brought equality, happiness and prosperity to China, Russia and other Eastern European countries. I was so hungry for knowledge that my schoolwork was suffering, and I did almost no study outside school hours. In less than a year, I knew more about the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution than I did about our own revolution. Through this I also discovered several famous Russian literary works, such as The Idiot by Dostoyevsky, And Quiet Flows the Don by Sholokhov, and works by other writers such as Maxim Gorky and Anton Chekhov. At the time, that was what I cherished most. What’s the point of going to school? I wondered.

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It was common among leftist parties to promote physical fitness, unity and comradeship. One way of achieving this goal was an organised mountain climb each Friday. After breakfast on top of the mountain, we would have in-depth discussions on political and ideological subjects. The team leaders would elaborate on the party’s manifesto and their ideals. We would then sing together the national or the party’s anthem. That was how I fell in love with the mountains surrounding Tehran, a fascination that sustained me for many years to come. In the absence of Islam, boys and girls were treated equally. However, I felt more comfortable around my male friends. Our job was to promote the party among our schoolmates and the wider community by distributing flyers and newspapers. We also put up banners to entice passersby on the street to engage in discussion and hopefully become converts to our party. Opposition by the government-backed militia was fierce, especially at school, and this sometimes resulted in physical brawls. Our school’s deputy principal was often on the phone expressing his dissatisfaction to our parents. My father’s frustration had built up to such an extent that one night he confronted me in the kitchen. ‘You either stop this nonsense at once or leave this house for good!’ He was about to attack me when my mother and my older brother Majid stopped him. His outburst was unbelievably terrifying. I grabbed a few essentials and contacted Saeid G. ‘Can I stay with you for a while?’ As a true friend, he welcomed me to his house with open arms. I wanted to punish my father for treating me so aggressively and selfishly; I was a young socialist who wanted to be part of ending the class struggle and forming a socialist state just like that in the eastern bloc — a classless social system. There could be no compromise and I was certain that my comrades would back me in my worthy cause. On the following day, Majid got hold of me and asked

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me to come back home. My desertion hadn’t mitigated my father’s anger and frustration with his headstrong son, but he realised that I wasn’t going to relent. He didn’t talk to me for more than two months, which was distressing, especially as he cut off my pocket money. From then on, he disregarded phone calls or summonses from my school’s deputy principle. My parents also had to deal with some of our neighbours who were ardent supporters of the regime. They considered activists like me infidels and made no attempt to hide their disgust. Luckily, my mother’s regular presence and involvement at our local mosque made life easier for my parents. After the revolution, everything was feverishly black and white, which affected the relationship between neighbours, too. Unfortunately, some of the militia were hooligans who armed themselves with cold weapons such as bats and knives. Even now I can vividly recall my first encounter with a group of these thugs. My heart was already pounding from the exhilaration of taking part in a group protest. We were standing in solidarity, a human chain of protest. Without any fanfare, a group of men approached, clutching butcher’s cleavers and machetes. They didn’t waste any time posturing. One of the mercenaries walked straight up to me and put his machete against my throat. I could feel the sharp, cold point of it as my Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in terror. Panic and anxiety, which would become all too familiar in later life, almost crippled me as I stood there. His message was simple: ‘Leave now or I will kill you and your friends.’ He didn’t say anything else; he didn’t need to. He was utterly convincing. One Friday a month later, a group of us was singing an anthem at the foot of the mountain when we were surrounded by police. Given my recent confrontation with my father and the tense atmosphere at home, I was prepared to do anything to avoid being arrested. My hands were shaking

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and my heart pounded in my chest as they marched us back towards the city. I made a calculated decision; at the next bend I would run away. The security forces hadn’t become too merciless at that stage, and I was quite familiar with the area, which gave me the confidence to take a chance and flee. I ran for nearly a kilometre before I stopped, trembling from nerves and exhaustion, but I was free. I was in Year 11 and was meant to be studying seriously to prepare for Year 12, but my political activities had become the top priority in my life — attending rallies, distributing flyers, putting up posters at night, debating with the young and old to promote my political and ideological views. Although, like other young political activists, I genuinely thought I was serving my people and my country, the regime regarded my activities as rebellion. My position at school had also become untenable as a result of a confrontation with one of the Islamic Student Council members. One day a heated debate turned to a fight between a few students. When I saw a friend of mine being bashed by one of the big guys from the opposite side, I couldn’t help but kick him in the balls. He was terribly hurt and my name was recorded, permanently, on the security forces’ ledger. I was literally in the ‘bad books’.

In June 1981, the regime increased its suppression of activists. Organised militia groups supported by riot police were deployed on the streets of central Tehran. Many of them were equipped with firearms and the rest with knives or batons. Their job was to intimidate and terrorise the protesters in the most vicious ways. Threats and public beatings were common. The political activists facing the militia and riot police were mainly students with little experience of how to respond to such

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brutality. Violent clashes ensued, gradually worsening until the regime’s leaders authorised the shooting of the protesters. As a result, the short history of the democratic battles of the Iranian people reached a turning point on 20 June 1981. On that day, the regime announced that all left-wing parties and their activities were illegal. This meant that anyone on the street campaigning against the regime could be imprisoned. The regime started arresting activists in major cities. It was as if an iron band had suddenly tightened around my chest. Our team leader in the FKI advised Saeid G and me to leave our homes immediately. We were told not to contact any team member until further notice. It turned out to be the last contact we had with the FKI. Small groups like the FKI were disbanded and no longer exist in Iran. Without any hesitation I packed a bag with a few essential items, left my parents and temporarily moved into the house of my sister, Tajee, in one of Tehran’s affluent northern suburbs. I also asked my younger brother, Amir, to get rid of three boxes of illegal books I had already packaged for disposal. The possession of banned novels or left-wing ideological books could be used against anyone and was terribly risky. Tajee and her husband, Hossein, received me with open arms and as soon as their door shut behind me I felt the band around my chest loosen a little. Government forces continued to demolish any form of political opposition and to smother any voice that they considered to be critical of the government and therefore destabilising. A week later, we were shocked by the breaking news of a massive explosion that had killed over seventytwo top officials in the parliament. When the MKO claimed responsibility for the explosion, the regime lost all semblance of reason and started a widespread assault on all political parties. Thousands of young activists were arrested and hundreds were executed within weeks.

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I could sense the dying gasps of democracy in our country. It was tragic to live in that climate of fear and I felt increasingly restless and anxious. Despite the risk, Tajee and Hossein made me feel welcome — we all believed that I was safer there — and I gratefully stayed on with them for a few more weeks. During the third week in my sister’s home, I met a boy my age called Sepehr. He was a fun-loving guy from a relatively wealthy family, with an active social life — probably the main reason that drew me to him. I wanted to distract myself, to stop fretting about the risks I faced. Sepehr and I were quite different — I came from a relatively humble family, whereas Sepehr came from a liberal, middle-class family. With him, I first experienced ten-pin bowling, billiards, a mixed party and dancing with a girl. The highlight was of course the party, in which boys and girls interacted freely. After the Islamic regime had taken power in Iran in 1979, such parties and free contact between the sexes were considered anti-Islamic and therefore illegal, which is partly why I found the party so appealing. Sepehr had asked me to dress in smart casual style and be ready to meet some girls. The party was to be held on the fifth floor of an apartment building. The host welcomed us warmly and we joined the rest of the teenagers, about twenty in all. The apartment was large, stylish and modern, with delicately patterned rugs on the timber floors. I was stunned to see paintings on the walls, which seemed to be original, although how could I tell? To me everything looked sophisticated and expensive. Sepehr, who knew most of the crowd, walked up to a few girls and immediately started chatting and joking with them. For me, girls were creatures from another planet — I knew very little about them, despite having grown up with three sisters. All the girls were dressed beautifully and

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I found it very daunting to be near them — I had never been to such a party. In my shyness I gradually drifted away from Sepehr, who was the centre of attention. I just didn’t want to be noticed and was too timid to talk to any girl. However, I managed to start a conversation with a couple of boys standing in the far corner of the living area. They were talking about fashions in men’s clothing and were dropping brand names into the conversation faster than I could absorb them. I had never considered the brand of my shoes or jackets. Before I could catch up with this conversation, they moved on to the latest news about some American pop singers. English words or names were sprinkled through their conversation, making it even harder for me to follow. After a time I noticed that there was a girl near the window who seemed to be glancing at me. She smiled, then averted her eyes and joined a few girls who were chatting excitedly. Though very inexperienced in this world where girls could talk freely to boys and vice versa, I could tell she was my kind of person — kind and likeable. As I was silently distancing myself from the boys, I bumped into the girl who had glanced at me. Her dark eyes were full of warmth and her smile gave me courage. ‘Hello, my name is Hanna,’ she said quietly. ‘Oh … hi,’ was all I managed to reply. I was lost for words. ‘You’re new here, right?’ she asked. ‘Yes, I’m staying at my sister’s for a while. How about you?’ I dared to ask. ‘I live in the opposite block of units with the white window frames,’ she replied. As we were haltingly getting to know each other, the music started. It was a Western pop song. Almost everyone began dancing except for Hanna and me, and she joined them for the second song. I stood there watching them like

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the proverbial kangaroo in the headlights. Sepehr grabbed my hand and made me dance with him, and gradually I tuned in and tried to synchronise my movements with the unfamiliar Western music. As we were dancing, the music changed to a soft love song, and everyone paired up and started to dance! Once again Sepehr took my hand and put it in Hanna’s. In my wildest dreams I had never imagined such a thing, and obviously I hadn’t a clue about how to dance with a partner, let alone dance a waltz. Hanna put her hands on my shoulders and began to guide me. It was magical. Dancing with a girl, so close, sent an electric current running through my nerves, warming my whole body. I hoped the music would never stop. ‘Your first dance with a girl?’ she whispered in my ear. ‘Yes, but it’s cool. I really like dancing with you,’ I replied. Unfortunately, the music and the party ended all too soon and we had to head back home. On our way, I asked Sepehr for copies of the photos he had taken that night. I was after a photo of Hanna, but I didn’t want Sepehr to know. That night I couldn’t sleep. The magic was still alive in me. I had talked and danced with a girl and my hands had touched and held her. I was intoxicated and entranced. I replayed the dance, our conversation, and the touch of her body in my head, like reels of film. The next day I arranged to catch up with Sepehr. He handed me a few pictures from the party, and luckily, Hanna was in two of them. Back at my sister’s house, I found some scissors and cut out her picture to fit my wallet: she was already an important person in my teenage life. One day, prompted my newly formed socialist beliefs, I decided to meet the labourers on a local construction site, who had just knocked off work for the day. I wanted to connect with the working class, to hear first hand about their lives. Due to

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the high cost of living in Tehran, workers who had come from remote towns to earn money for their families had to stay in a shed on site. I joined them for a cup of tea. There was a world of difference between the conditions in that shed and the luxury of the neighbouring houses. ‘You have five kids?’ I stuttered. ‘How could that be? You’re so young!’ I was surprised to learn that one of the workers was only twenty-eight years old, with a growing family. ‘Couldn’t you find a job in your home town, to stay with your wife and kids?’ It was terrible to see those poor guys working in such harsh conditions, far from home, making money only to survive. The conditions under which these men worked reinforced my socialist beliefs. It really is time for a change, for equality and justice, I thought to myself. My own future was now shrouded in uncertainty, and I wondered fleetingly if I, too, would end up with nothing but my labour to sell. As a consequence of my involvement in the protests and my fear of being arrested at high school, I hadn’t sat for two of my end of year exams. Deep inside, I wanted to continue my education, but now matters had been taken out of my hands, and there were more pressing issues to deal with — my security first of all and my freedom. I didn’t want to be sent to the infamous Evin Prison. I had heard too many horrifying stories about the cruelty inflicted on the political prisoners in that dreadful jail. My first priority was to avoid that. So education and high school would have to wait. I hadn’t heard from Saeid G for a long time. I knew his cousin, Arian, and decided to call him from a public phone. After the usual greetings, I asked him about Saeid G. His voice quavered. ‘I have absolutely no idea where he is and his family doesn’t seem to know either.’

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I was worried about Saeid G, and that futile phone call only fuelled my anxiety. It felt like the world had suddenly changed around me, becoming darker and more sinister. Like me, Saeid G was a teenager who played no important role in any political party — we were too young. But evidently the Islamic regime wasn’t a believer in the innocence of youth. When it came to the apprehension of activists, they treated us all the same way. I didn’t have much to do during the day except for reading or watching movies. Occasionally I spent time with Sepehr, but our talks were always lightweight and I couldn’t share my troubles with him. A week later, at 11.30 p.m., the phone rang and my sister rushed to answer it. ‘Hello? Hi Agha-joon, what’s up?’ It was my father. I went and stood beside her as she listened, anxious to find out what had happened. Instinctively, I sensed this call had something to do with me. Suddenly she frowned and looked upset. ‘Are you all right?’ she demanded. Apparently my dad had told her, in a shaky voice, that the security forces had been in the neighbourhood looking for me, trying to collect any clues to my whereabouts by questioning our neighbours. It was upsetting to realise that my family had to go through all this because of me. How could I forgive myself for hurting them? They weren’t ready for this; they simply didn’t know how to handle it.

My father’s mother had died giving birth to him and he had been brought up by his stepmother. After completing his primary schooling he was sent to a bicycle repair shop to learn the trade and work full time to help his father. He eventually ended up running a bicycle repair shop, and after getting married, he also landed a job in the national postal department. He worked

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two jobs, including night shifts, to earn enough to feed his large family. Because he had grown up in such tough conditions, he disciplined all his children firmly and did not spare the rod on his sons. But he was good with children, and popular among the younger kids in our extended family, keeping them entertained with funny tricks and games. He was a sociable person who could connect easily with neighbours and colleagues. Despite his qualities, I could not confide in him about many things during my childhood and adolescence. Open communication was an art my father had unfortunately never learned. Democracy was as absent from family politics as it was from our government. My father was very much from the old school and he negotiated life with a big stick, sometimes literally! However, beneath his tough facade, he had a soft heart and a good sense of humour, which he would demonstrate with hearty laughter during a funny encounter with one of us or a good cry when he heard of the loss of an old distant relative. Unlike my dad, my mum had never been given the chance to learn how to read and write because there was no mandatory education for boys and girls in all parts of Iran. She was forced to marry my father when she was only twelve and started childbearing from the age of fourteen. By the time she was twenty-seven, she had seven children: Tajee, Azam, Hamid, Majid, Manijeh, myself and Amir. My mother’s life was very much limited to the domestic sphere — a prison of domesticity and patriarchal values. Her world seemed to stretch no further than her own family and her skills in basic housekeeping and child rearing. Without hot water or a washing machine at home, she had to endure the sting of icy water in cold winters, washing our clothes by hand. In the absence of education or training, she acted on

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instinct, which was not always enough when dealing with her children in the modern world. It was not uncommon for her, out of sheer frustration, to resort to screaming at a child who wouldn’t comply, but despite that, she was a loving mother and still is. Raising and minding seven children was so stressful that she eventually found a way to get out of the house for a brief respite. What kind of entertainment or activity was freely available for a woman of her status? Going to a game of lawn bowls or to a local club for a game of bridge? Of course not; there were no such luxuries in her world. Instead, she went to mosque for midday prayers or listened to religious talks without being able to analyse or question the teachings. She developed an understandable attachment to Islamic programs and rituals, one of perhaps millions of women who are deeply reliant on such activities in Iran. During my first years in high school, my siblings and I encouraged her to attend literacy classes for adults, a free program started during the Shah’s regime. Each night I spent time teaching her the alphabet and numbers. She learned the basics but her mind was too preoccupied with the daily chores to recognise the long-term benefits of literacy. Unfortunately, her level of literacy never improved enough to allow her to enjoy reading a book or writing a letter. To this day, her failure to be offered an education, a basic human right, saddens me. When I was seven years old, I discovered that our neighbour had bought a television. One night I climbed the 2.5 metre high brick fence to check it out. As luck would have it, their TV was facing us and I could watch it through their window. From that night, my younger brother and I spent an hour or so each night on top of the wall watching our neighbour’s TV, until my mother found out. In order to keep us safe, she sold

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her gold bangles — her only savings — and bought us a TV. We were a family of nine living in a house with only two small bedrooms. My two older sisters, Tajee and Azam, shared one room and my two older brothers, Hamid and Majid, shared a small space above the stairs that was also used for storage. My parents and the other three kids — my sister Manijeh, my younger brother Amir and I — slept in the living area. As a small boy, it didn’t occur to me that my parents needed some privacy. One night when I woke up thirsty, I noticed my parents having a serious argument under their blanket — they even seemed to be wrestling! — but I was too drowsy to ask what the argument was about. As the eldest, Tajee took on many responsibilities from an early age, babysitting us younger children and acting as a second mother in many ways. She soon realised that my parents lacked the knowledge and awareness to adequately address certain aspects of our wellbeing or education. She was a feisty, clever girl who even sometimes stood up to my father when he was unduly harsh to any of us, or to my mother. She managed to develop a special relationship with each one of us and to create a special place in our lives. Although she couldn’t deal with every predicament in our large and chaotic household, to me she has been the rock of our family from the moment I recognised who she was. Azam, my next sister, was full of life and affection. She enjoyed studying and was a gifted belly dancer. As the first boy in the family, Hamid gravitated to my father’s workshop and started working and playing there from the moment he could hold a tool in his small hands. My brother Majid, the fourth child, similarly had to participate in my father’s business, but he was cheeky enough to escape any time he could. He was mesmerised by the world outside my father’s workshop and never seemed to realise that

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he would have to face the music each time my father found out about his escapades. Manijeh, the fifth child, was three years older than me. She went through a very rough time during her years in high school, struggling to make sense of the rapidly changing world outside her home during the last years of the Shah’s rule. Both Manijeh and I were more emotionally sensitive and fragile. Amir, the last child, received the unconditional love of both my parents. Unlike mine, his features were almost perfect and he seemed always to be the centre of attention, which didn’t help my self-confidence. Despite being spoiled by my parents, he ended up becoming a successful jeweller. Mealtime in our household brought everybody together. We didn’t have a dining table or chairs; we sat on the floor around the sofreh. Sofreh is a Persian word that technically means ‘spread’, but refers to a cloth spread on the floor or a carpet or rug, upon which food is served. Dining tables, lounges and coffee tables were luxury items back then. The main elements of our meals were bread, rice and potato, reasonably inexpensive and rich in calories to feed and satisfy the relentless hunger of a young family. Our sole drink was tap water and we had no idea what entree or dessert meant. Of course, things have changed over the past few decades and eating rituals in Iran nowadays resemble those in the West. My mother was in charge of domestic work but she demanded my two older sisters help with the cleaning, the dishes and cooking certain meals. The boys weren’t expected to assist my mother in the kitchen and were promptly chased out. Like my two older brothers, I had to start helping my father run his workshop, especially when he was at his second job. During my primary schooling, I had to be present and work at his workshop every morning and attend classes in the

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afternoon. My school, like many other public schools, ran separate shifts of morning and afternoon classes to meet the work demands of students. I was sometimes so tired I fell asleep in class, which resulted in embarrassing punishment in front of my classmates. After school I had limited time to do my homework and eat dinner before crashing in one corner of our living area. Practically, there was no time to go out and play with other kids in our neighbourhood. My school results were also average; none of my marks were above B. By the time I was ten years old, my two older sisters had married and moved out. Within two years my older brother also fell in love with a girl and got married. So there was more space left for the rest of us. By then, we had moved into a threestorey townhouse, which allowed my younger brother and I to have a room to ourselves. We had a small front yard where a narrow planter and a few large pots softened the harshness of the surrounding tall brick walls. Unlike the picket fences or similar low fences around houses in cities like Sydney, it is quite common in Tehran to see tall brick or block walls enclosing back or front yards. It may be more secure, but it also reflects our religious background, which promotes a culture of closed doors, in particular for women. As a result of huge economic growth during the last decade of the Shah’s rule, even my family’s standard of living improved each year, and with three of my siblings leaving, my father’s income provided us with a little more variety in our food and clothing. Our clothes were now slightly less worn and the aromas of my mother’s very traditional cooking were accompanied by tantalising new scents and smells which seemed very foreign in our kitchen. Our frugal holidays occurred more often, and while still modest, occasionally we now bought souvenirs to adorn the walls and shelves of our new home. By the end of primary school, my father sold his workshop

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business and bought a second-hand taxi in the hope of making a better living. It was his first car and we were all super excited to sit on the leather seats and play with the steering wheel. Consequently, I started high school without having to work in the workshop. I could go to school each morning and only study; that was easy! I gradually began to enjoy Maths, Science and Literature. Amazingly, I improved in all my subjects and was placed second in our class at the end of the year. I continued to develop further and was placed first the following year and subsequently represented our school in the state’s Maths and Science competitions. However, all that was abruptly interrupted a year later in 1979 when the revolution erupted. I was just fifteen.

My parents lived through significant social and cultural changes in Iranian life, at a time when poverty and illiteracy were rife. In 1963, the Shah began the White Revolution, a series of economic, social and political reforms with the proclaimed intention of transforming Iran into a global power and modernising the nation by nationalising certain industries and granting women suffrage. Cities were growing rapidly and the chasm between the wealthy and the poor widened. My parents were among those struggling to make ends meet. I still vividly remember that each year a couple of weeks before the New Year my father would take us to the budget stores located in Tehran Bazaar to purchase new clothes. He could only afford to buy us what he thought we needed, not what we desired. The literacy rate had gradually risen above 30 per cent in the 1960s, and continued to rise at a greater rate during the next decade. My siblings and I were fortunate to be born in Tehran as education was more highly valued in major

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cities compared to small towns and rural areas, where the majority of the population lived. Nevertheless, my parents forced my second oldest sister, Azam, into marriage at the age of seventeen, despite her being a high-achieving student in high school. You can imagine her feelings when her hopes of completing high school and university were dashed, and her dream of becoming a successful businesswoman was destroyed. The course of her life completely changed — she had to leave school and within a year she delivered her first child, becoming a full-time mother and housewife. She and her husband raised three wonderful boys who all ended up being successful in their personal and professional lives, so her sacrifice was not in vain. The new laws giving women equal rights to men in 1967 didn’t change my mother’s position in our household and my father continued to be domineering. The new paradigm, however, offered some hope to my sisters who were witnessing the gradual loosening of religion’s tight grip on their lives. My mother, a devout Muslim, did not welcome these changes. ‘Where is your headscarf? You can’t go out like this …’ she would protest to no avail when my older sister chose to follow the secular trend in the big city of Tehran. Women’s rights and sexual freedom were greater in the 1970s than they are today in Iran, but there is little distinction between the two eras in terms of human and civil rights; censorship and control under the Shah’s dictatorship has much in common with the current religious tyranny in Iran. Neither regime could tolerate any form of opposition or criticism or protest against their policies or corruption. As an integral feature of Westernisation, the number of bars and cabarets grew rapidly. My father developed the habit of frequenting a couple of bars or cabarets, getting home late on most nights, drunk and out of control. The culture of excessive

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drinking and smoking was being preached through cheap movies and TV series, either produced in Hollywood or Iran. My mother considered my father’s late nights and excessive drinking sinful and deplorable, which led to frequent violent disputes. Dad simply wasn’t prepared for or educated about that aspect of Westernisation, and couldn’t manage it or himself. Those unhappy days and nights deeply hurt us and permanently affected my views on alcohol consumption. In the 1970s, some of the holiday resorts, hotels and beaches were quite modern, and the suburbs in the north of Tehran were like those you could see in glamorous Hollywood movies, but the rest of Tehran and Iran was underdeveloped and poor. Our house was towards the centre of Tehran, but certainly outside the wealthy zone. My father’s extended family lived in southern Tehran and any time we paid them a visit, I could see the huge disparity in wealth, despite my young age. The wealth being generated by Iran’s oil was not being distributed fairly among the people. The Shah’s family were notorious for their lavish and extravagant lifestyle, which bred anger among the opposition groups and disgust and disappointment amongst the people. However, he employed well-educated politicians to run the country who began to invest in education, industry and health. I was in Year 8 when schools started providing free milk and snacks to students during recess every day. Modernisation was in full force and the economy was strong. But unfortunately it was too late, and by this time, the opposition groups had established themselves. The pace of modernisation was too fast and perhaps too superficial; it took into account neither the rate of illiteracy, nor the depth of religious roots, nor the inequality within society. The majority were unprepared for change and paranoid about the pace at which it was happening. Besides, the Shah’s intelligence service had been systematically

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identifying, arresting and torturing opposing voices, which further fuelled dissatisfaction with his modern dictatorship among the intellectuals. On the other hand, during the last years of the Shah’s reign America was concerned about his ambitious slogans on independence from the West. Iran’s fast economic growth and its influence on the oil price could possibly upset the balance of power in the Middle East. Therefore, when opposition groups united against the Shah, America withdrew its support for him, which finally led to the revolution in 1979. Seemingly oblivious to it all, during all those years, my parents had only one concern: providing for their seven children. They knew little about politics and were easily pleased by any political system. Life had deprived them both of the knowledge and skills to wrestle with challenges beyond their immediate experience, and now I had brought upon them the attention of the state. I knew too well the immense pain and distress they would have been feeling because of me.

With the security forces asking questions about me at home, it was obvious that I had to leave my sister’s house immediately. I was exposing her and her husband to serious danger for harbouring me. Besides, no matter how courageous I knew my sister to be, I had to protect her from confronting the faceless monsters in the security forces. The following morning I phoned my older brother, Hamid, who was working in one of the major ports in the far south of Iran. The upshot of it was that I began to pack my bag for a trip to Bandar Abbas. Fear for my life overshadowed the sense of loss I felt at leaving my parents and the rest of my family. They all gathered at my sister Tajee’s place. I hugged and kissed them mechanically, feeling little. This was a new chapter in

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my life I hadn’t anticipated. Events were about to unfold over which I had no control. I had to play it by ear. Hossein, my brother-in-law, gave me a lift to the bus terminal. It was a hot summer day and even after lugging my suitcase only a short distance, I was sodden with sweat, but as I look back now, perhaps the heat was only partly to blame. I found my coach; it was the iconic TBT light blue. After settling in my seat, I glanced out the window numbly, unable to think clearly in the fug of anxiety and heat. It seemed I had been sentenced to exile without a trial or decree and I was going reluctantly. The bus took off. The guy next to me asked me to open the window as the air-conditioning was ineffective. Probably my body odour was unbearable but I couldn’t smell anything at that moment. My senses were confused and my mind was racing, trying to assess the dreadful situation I found myself in — a fugitive fleeing to an unfamiliar territory, leaving my home and family. It seemed almost incomprehensible to me. When the bus left the busy streets of Tehran, my numbness gradually left me too. It suddenly hit me that I was leaving my home town and my family. What about my school, my friends, and my familiar life in Tehran? All of a sudden, I shivered. I stared blindly through the window but everything was blurry and unidentifiable, like shadows dancing mutely. My eyes were filled with tears ­— an inexperienced seventeen-year-old boy, anxious and lonely. After a couple of melancholy hours when I gave way to selfpity, I began to rally. My inner socialist reminded me that I was enduring all this hardship for a worthy cause. After the tension of the last hours, my body felt stiff and uncomfortable, so I got up and walked along the aisle to get my blood circulating and to ease my cramped muscles. My mood shifted and I began to feel better.

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It was a long trip — almost twenty-two hours squashed in a tin can. The bus stopped a few times for refreshments and prayers. At about 2 a.m., the militia boarded the bus for a security check. I froze. They began to examine each passenger, choosing some at random for a more detailed search and interrogation. Just before getting on the bus, I had bought a couple of football magazines, to read if there was a security check. Watching the militia, I began to fidget, so I grabbed a magazine and pretended to read it. It was a common perception that activists didn’t have much interest in sport, so reading a sports magazine would provide good cover, and help me pass the security roadblocks. Reading about football felt to me like playing a deadly game of my own. All my senses were alert as I tried my best to look normal. Luckily, it worked; they didn’t suspect me. For the rest of the night, my mind was racing, playing through possible scenarios for my brief stay in Bandar Abbas. I hope it’s temporary, I thought. My agitation and the uncomfortable seat meant a sleepless night for me, but I felt safer staying awake. The following day, the blue TBT bus arrived in Bandar Abbas, a coastal town on the Persian Gulf. It was terribly hot and humid, and I was relieved to climb into my brother’s air-conditioned four-wheel drive. It was a relief to know that summer officially ended in eight more days and cooler weather would soon arrive. I was exhausted and my muscles were stiff but I stared out the window at this new town with interest — it was far smaller and a lot less advanced than Tehran. ‘I shouldn’t go to your house; it could be risky even here,’ I said to my brother. I had no intention of staying with him, I just needed his support to find a job and stay in Bandar Abbas for a while until the storm had passed in my home city. ‘Don’t worry about it. Stay with us for a few days until I find you a place,’ he said.

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His residence was forty kilometres outside town near a huge ship-building factory. After getting a good night’s sleep, I went with my brother to meet a road-construction contractor. They needed someone in the field to control and guide the delivery of truckloads of sand and gravel for the base of the new road. I agreed to begin immediately, so after a couple of hours of training and induction, I was escorted to the field to start work. Working conditions were far from glamorous. I was given a notepad and pen to record details of deliveries and I had to ensure the trucks were unloaded in the right location. It didn’t take me long to get used to the heat and the tough conditions, which were nothing compared to the truck drivers’ horrendous working conditions. Every day they sat behind the steering wheel in extreme temperatures for ten to fourteen hours. During the lunch hour, I had the opportunity to talk to the drivers, and find out about their lives. Almost all of them were married and had to work long hours to provide for their families, who were living in distant towns. The majority of the truck drivers were smokers and some of them seemed to be using drugs to alleviate their suffering. Opium and heroin, soothing poisons for the body and soul, could be found in every town in Iran, providing a means of escape from the pain of their terrible circumstances. One day, when one of the drivers was getting out of his truck to inspect the wheels before going back to the quarry, he fell and broke his hip. He was in agonising pain until an ambulance appeared about two hours later. There was nobody to go with him so I decided to accompany him to the hospital. The road to the city was terribly bumpy in parts, which intensified his anguish. After the X-ray and examination, he was sent straight

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into the operating theatre for surgery, and I completed the paperwork for his admission. I was stunned to discover he was only thirty-four years old. The grey sideburns and the deep wrinkles on his forehead belonged to a man of at least fifty. His entire family was living in a town five hours from Bandar Abbas, so he was completely alone. I can’t leave him here, I decided. The operation was successful. He was required to stay in hospital for a week and then rest for four months at home for a full recovery, before returning to work. This wasn’t good news for him as the sole breadwinner for his family. The monthly payments from workers’ compensation would be limited — inadequate for even a week’s expenses. His only hope was for his employer to provide some financial assistance until he could resume work. However, the company didn’t appear too sympathetic and agreed to pay only one month’s salary. He couldn’t do much as the terms of his employment and the law both favoured his employer. This did not sit well with my newfound idealism. In fact, I found it outrageous — absolutely unjust. I vowed to do something about it. After returning to my workplace, I started discussing this incident with the truck drivers. I pointed out that the terms of their employment were onesided. ‘You guys are working long hours six or seven days a week for a small salary,’ I said with all the conviction of youth, ‘and when you’re injured during your work, they still expect you to rely solely on workers’ compensation. You’ve got to do something about it!’ One of the youngest drivers, Hassan, stood up and spoke in support: ‘Let’s organise a strike. Their construction program’s so tight, they can’t afford any delay — they’ll have to accept our terms.’ This seemed like a brilliant idea, so after more deliberation,

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we decided to stop work the following week when a critical part of the road needed to be constructed. The truck drivers chose me and Hassan as their representatives to speak with the company’s management, who reluctantly accepted almost all of our terms, including an increase in salaries and overtime penalty rates, a reduction in working hours, and provision for accidents. Given their commitment to a strict schedule, they had little choice. We were thrilled with the outcome. For me, however, the happiness didn’t last long. My manager called me into his office and said bluntly, ‘You’re fired, effective immediately.’ ‘You can’t do this, sir. What have I done wrong?’ I protested. ‘If it weren’t for your brother, I would turn you in to the police. I know why you’re here in Bandar Abbas, so just leave,’ he snapped. I could sense that he wasn’t bluffing so I thanked him for giving me the opportunity to work in the company and left his office. When the drivers found out that I was the scapegoat for the strike, they wanted to go on strike again to keep me, but this time I had to dissuade them. ‘Look, it’s not because of the strike. I just have to get back to my studies and finish high school. This is what my family wants me to do.’ I tried to sound convincing and they all seemed to believe me. Once again, my brother helped me find another job, and a flat with a factory worker who was also originally from the capital. The new job was in the ship-building factory doing basic paperwork in one of the departments for nine to ten hours a day. In the evening I read or listened to music, and so that long winter in the south of Iran slowly passed. Unlike Western boys of my age, I did not listen to pop music, but to classical Persian music, sometimes freshly

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interpreted on the piano by Maestro Javad Maroufi. I had never touched piano keys in my life, but such was my love for the Maestro’s music that I developed a deep desire to play that beautiful instrument. I was also moved by the poetry that sometimes accompanied the music. Persian music dates back thousands of years, but despite this long tradition, after the 1979 revolution, singing was banned. After a time the ban was weakened, but women were still forbidden to sing in front of male or mixed audiences. This may seem a relatively trivial injustice in the scheme of things, but it reflected much deeper concerns in the political consciousness of Iran. Everything was classified either as revolutionary or anti-revolution in the late 1970s and early 1980s, then this classification evolved to become Islamic or anti-Islamic. I would lie on my bed at night, listening to music and wondering, What are my friends doing now? How about my family? These questions looped through my head, but I dared not try to contact anyone. Spring was approaching and even the government couldn’t dampen the joy of that season completely. New Year in Iran begins on the first day of spring, with a few days of public holiday and celebration. Family members try to get together to celebrate with parties, music, food, presents, and laughter — the usual elements of a festive season anywhere. This New Year was quite different for me. Except for spending New Year’s Day with my brother’s family, my books and radio were my only company for the rest of the holiday break. I didn’t even have a TV in my flat. After nearly seven months of living away from my family and home town, my homesickness was growing — I was dying to return home. It seemed as if the regime was concentrating mainly on the war with Iraq, and a couple of my friends in Tehran told me that the storm had passed

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and it would now be safe for me to return home. All the opposing political parties had been crushed by the Islamic regime and, consequently, individuals like me wouldn’t be considered a threat to the establishment. It was very hard to believe, but I wanted to take the risk so I could see my family and friends once more. In a surge of optimism, I bought my coach ticket and looked forward to returning to my normal life. I had felt my exile keenly over the last months. It was time to re-engage with the realities of Tehran, and perhaps uncover the truth of what had happened to my good friend Saeid G.

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2 . RETU RNING HOME

It was nearly the end of April 1982 when I arrived in Tehran. I was so happy to be back. The crowded noisy streets of Tehran seemed to me to contain an intoxicating energy — it was like that first breath of fresh air after a long underwater swim. At home, my brothers and sisters surrounded me, full of questions about my long stay in Bandar Abbas. The familiar smell of home-cooked food made my mouth water, and the warm and reassuring presence of my parents made me feel secure once more. Although everybody assured me I needn’t worry about my involvement in the political campaign against the regime, I couldn’t believe it and felt like I was being followed all the time. During the first few days after my return, I watched the street through my bedroom window and listened intently for the sound of cars or a knock on the door. My apprehension made it difficult to sleep at night, but fortunately, after the first few days, my jitters slowly began to subside and I felt more relaxed.

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I had heard nothing about Sepehr and Hanna while I was away, and was keen to see them, so I contacted Sepehr and arranged to meet up with him at his place. Like other teenagers my age, he had been studying at school and enjoying his social life. As I listened to him talk about his schoolwork and leisure, I began to feel that I had been left behind — I had missed so much schooling and, perhaps more importantly to me, I’d never had a girlfriend. I cautiously asked him about Hanna. ‘She’s great. I saw her two weeks ago. She had just come back from a holiday in Turkey with her family. By the way, where have you been these past months? Hanna was asking about you,’ he said. I didn’t know how to respond — I couldn’t bring myself to paint him a picture of my unorthodox life. While I had the distinct impression that he had his suspicions about my absence, the separate worlds we inhabited made it impossible for him to comprehend the struggles of workingclass people. He was Jay Gatsby to my Nick Carraway, with no understanding of the real troubles that plagued society. ‘I was studying in Bandar Abbas for a few months while my father was there on a rather lengthy business trip,’ I lied, ‘but now we are all back in Tehran and I’ll be going to school here.’ I didn’t like lying to him, but what else could I say? Just before leaving his house, I skilfully managed to get Hanna’s phone number from him. Calling her was hard. I found arranging a strike far easier than phoning a girl! Eventually, after hours of pep talks with myself, I summoned all my courage and dialled the number with trembling hands and staccato heart. ‘Hi, Hanna, it’s Saeed. How are you?’ ‘Hi, fine thanks. I bumped into Sepehr yesterday and he told me about your trip. When did you come back?’ she asked.

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At the sound of her voice I realised how much I had missed her. I suggested we should meet, and she willingly accepted, so we set a date to catch up during the following week. Feeling buoyed after talking with Hanna, I started contacting my schoolfriends from the previous year. I particularly wanted to hear about Saeid G. To be on the safe side, I used a public phone to call his home. ‘Hello!’ His older sister picked up the phone. ‘Can I speak to Saeid G please?’ I asked after introducing myself. ‘He’s not here and we haven’t heard from him for a long time.’ She paused, sounding very unfriendly. ‘Don’t call here again!’ she snapped and hung up. It took my brain a second or two to process her harsh reaction, and the devastation I felt. My knees began to shake and I leant against the wall, suddenly dizzy. He must be in prison, otherwise she wouldn’t treat me that way! It was the only conclusion I could draw from her words and her tone. Like me, Saeid G’s role in the campaign was so insignificant that it was hard to believe he could have been arrested. He had been determined not to leave Tehran — ‘On what grounds can these bastards arrest me?’ he’d argued — and now it seemed he had been arrested after all. The phone call turned my world upside down. I slumped to the pavement. Although I was in a very busy street, I couldn’t hear any noise or see anyone — my gaze was fixed on the square tiles of the pavement. I sat there, holding my head in my hands, until a passerby touched my shoulder. ‘Are you OK? Do you need any help?’ he asked. ‘No thanks, I just received bad news about a friend,’ I said. As I was walking back home, I passed many high-school students chatting loudly, joking and having fun. They all

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looked blissfully ignorant about the state of the country and the brutality of the Islamic regime incarcerating innocent people like Saeid G. Do these people even care? I wondered. Why did Saeid G have to be put in prison for these people who don’t give a damn? I stopped, my fists balled, shaking with anger. That night I didn’t join my family for dinner but stayed in my room. I felt lonely in my own home and a stranger in my own city. I felt as if I had nobody to talk to about my feelings of hurt and despair — I didn’t want my parents to know about Saeid G’s imprisonment, or they would worry about me even more. The following day, after I failed to appear for breakfast, my mother tried to find out what was bothering me. I pretended that I had a headache and needed to rest. Then I had a phone call from my sister Tajee, ordering me to go to their place for dinner. I had no choice but to comply, and, as always, she was there to support me. After dinner, I talked to my brother-in-law, Hossein. ‘I’m completely disorientated. I hate this government. How can those bastards jail innocent people like Saeid G?’ I said. ‘You’re not alone on that one. There are thousands of people who think like you and want to do something, but there is a big barrier — this bloody war. The regime is cleverly using it to suppress any opposition,’ he said. Neighbouring Iraq had attacked Iran in September 1980. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do. I couldn’t care less about school.’ ‘Pray to God and ask for peace and guidance. He’s the source of abundant wisdom and light,’ my brother-in-law said. In his own way Hossein was a man of faith. ‘I don’t believe in God anymore,’ I muttered, looking down at my feet. ‘But you believe in the universe and humanity, don’t you?’ he asked. I had already confided in him about my belief that one

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day everyone would be equal, and he knew I found the order in the universe awe-inspiring. ‘Yes … I guess’, I said disconsolately. ‘Look, you need to relax a little bit about the current situation. I know it is a mess and it may take years for us to see any positive change, especially when the country is in the midst of such a dreadful war.’ He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘The best way you can help now is to get on with your studies. You’re still very young. In this chaotic time, perhaps the best choice is to improve yourself in every way you can. When the time is right, once again you’ll be able to make a contribution. It will never be too late,’ he said. Though the past two years of my life had centred around political activities, like other students, I wanted to finish high school. But after months of disruption, living with uncertainty, in hiding, far from home, constantly worrying, I no longer knew what to do with myself. Getting back to normality was easier said than done. Watching the news about the war and the enormous number of casualties was enough to unsettle me, and the increasing influence of religion in every aspect of our lives depressed me. According to the new Islamic law, women were required to cover their hair whenever they left their homes. TV series were all being censored and only shows that did not conflict with their ideology could be broadcast, which, let me tell you, made for some incredibly boring viewing. Above all, the atmosphere of fear was suffocating. Besides being a patriot, Hossein was a well-educated and successful businessman. I had come to respect him for his views on life because he was living what he believed. ‘How can I change my focus when everything on TV is about war and the government preaching their medieval beliefs?’ I asked. ‘Simple, don’t watch TV!’ he replied emphatically.

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‘How about the newspapers or the discussions I overhear everywhere I go?’ I asked. ‘Avoid them both, newspapers and discussions.’ He paused. ‘There are other important things you should concentrate on: your education and your future profession. You may not agree with what I’m saying now, but believe me, those two things will be the foundation for anything you may want to do in the future When you’ve learned and experienced more, your services will also be more valuable and you will be able to effect greater change.’ He sounded as if he was speaking from experience. ‘You’ve had a very difficult and upsetting year. It may take some time for you to heal and get back to your studies, but it is possible and you can make it happen. I know you well and I know you can.’ He sounded utterly sincere and his look was both open and sympathetic. After I left their house, I went for a long walk. Hossein’s words had struck a chord with me. My inner doctor prescribed solitude taken with fresh air as the best medication. I needed to digest the insights Hossein had just passed on to me. There was still so much swirling around in my head but I suddenly felt that my vision wasn’t as blurry any more. He was right, I needed to work on me and this was something I hadn’t done since the revolution. Over the past couple of years my attention had been turned outward; now I needed to attend to myself for a time, to learn and to grow. When I got home, I grabbed my notebook and started writing. Sometimes it felt as if my notebook was my closest friend; it never questioned or criticised me and never made any demands; it was my safe haven. I made myself a cup of tea and started writing whatever came to mind. There were so many thoughts, worries and voices. I needed to clarify them so that each of them could be properly assessed; I had to. If

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I had any hope of getting back to my studies, I needed clarity. It was a long night, but I didn’t mind. When the sun rose, shedding both metaphorical and literal light on my foggy head, I had made the decision to sit for the Year 12 final exams. I didn’t feel tired or sleepy, rather I felt a surge of energy, a desire to seize life and make the most of it. I wrote on an A3 sheet of paper, ‘I can do this, I can handle this!’ and taped it to the wall. That day, I contacted a few schoolfriends. Unsurprisingly, given the fact that the school year was almost over, they were all studying hard for the exams. Unlike contemporary Australian schools, where students can choose their subjects, all subjects in a particular field were compulsory. As I was keen to get into Engineering at university, my field of study was Maths and Science. The volume of material to study in Year 12 was enormous and extremely difficult, and I had only two months in which to do it. Everybody was working hard to achieve the best possible results in the exams, even thought there was no hope of entering university any time soon. Since the widespread protests the previous year, the Islamic regime had decided to close all the universities across the country indefinitely. Organised protests and campaigns in the universities were a major threat to the existence of the regime, which had decided to cleanse and Islamicise all the universities, calling 1980 the beginning of the ‘Cultural Revolution’. Perhaps only Chinese readers can comprehend how frightening and debilitating those two seemingly innocuous words had become. Closing the universities interrupted or postponed the education of hundreds of thousands of students and destroyed the livelihood of university staff. The following day, my father and I went to my school to ask for my Year 11 certificate. To my astonishment, the principal was most helpful and my certificate was issued. He seemed

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sympathetic, and I got the impression that he was not pleased with recent events. He advised me about how to enrol for the final exams through the Department of Education, knowing only too well what a massive challenge lay before me. After I had enrolled, I collected all the schoolbooks I was required to study. How on earth am I going to master so much material in only two months? I asked myself. It would be hard enough in a full academic year! I was so far behind that I had to make the most of every single day, so I decided to enrol in a prominent coaching school for some intensive courses. Luckily, I had saved some money from my wages in Bandar Abbas and could afford the fees. Studying Maths or Physics involves more than just memorising facts. One has to understand the concepts inside out in order to be able to solve complex problems. Knowing this, I buried myself in my books and gradually weaned myself off TV, newspapers and even friends. I had so much to learn and so little time. Whether or not it was normal and healthy to study for long hours without any leisure or fun was irrelevant. If I wanted to pass my exams I had no other choice. Eating became a chore; sleeping an ordeal. Once again I resorted to sleeping tablets as my anxiety and distress escalated. In order to study twelve to fourteen hours a day, I needed a solid night’s sleep, and I knew of no other way to achieve it; at the time, I had not heard about meditation or relaxation techniques. However, I did know sleeping pills could be addictive, so I decided to take them no more than four nights per week. I understood I wouldn’t have time to see Hanna, or to risk becoming more preoccupied with her, but I needed to at least call her and explain. I apologised for being so unsociable, firmly ignoring my inner voice and my secret desires. As a young man only just becoming aware of the enchantment of

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the opposite sex, I was proud of my self-control and still am, but the decision was very painful. I gobbled up new concepts in Mathematics, Physics and Chemistry and crammed my head with information about other subjects such as History, Literature and Religion. My brain felt as if it might burst, as if I were trying to fit an entire wardrobe in one suitcase. I used every opportunity to study, even when I went to the toilet, reviewing and memorising my work. With only three weeks till my exams, I had still not read several Maths and Physics chapters, and I was beginning to panic. How on earth am I going to get through these? I wondered. It was next to impossible. I needed a plan. I consulted a couple of teachers in the coaching school and asked for guidance, and they helped me compile a list of essential chapters for each subject, so that I could focus my efforts on them. Every day the exams drew nearer and my hours of sleep grew shorter. I was now taking sleeping tablets every night to get five or six hours’ sleep. No one I knew had such a tight program or was under so much pressure. Every morning I had to psyche myself up, repeating, I can do this, I can handle this, before reading a page or solving a maths problem. I was really struggling, both mentally and emotionally, but I had no time to think about it. If I had allowed myself even a small dose of self-pity I would have collapsed. I desperately wanted to pass the final exams. At the end of the last Maths lesson at the coaching school, my teacher gave us a crucial piece of advice: ‘Maths and Physics are not subjects to be learned just before the exams, so remember this: the night before your exams, stop studying at 5 p.m. — full stop! A fresh and rested mind is what you will need most to solve complex problems on the day of your exam.’ My first exam was Mechanics. Luckily, it was my favourite

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subject and I was hoping to do well in it. I didn’t take my teacher’s advice to stop studying the night before at 5.00 p.m. because I had so much to review, but I managed to close my book reluctantly at 11 p.m. At the exam, I could solve most of the problems confidently and tried to have a go at the rest using my limited preparation. Immediately after the exam, I checked my answers with my teacher and they seemed satisfactory, which gave my confidence a boost. I felt happy to be off to a good start. The two weeks of exams passed with excruciating slowness. I was happy with all my exams, except for Chemistry, and I was just hoping to get a pass in that. To me, Chemistry had always seemed like the last kid to get picked for a team, the one no one really wanted. After the final exam venue I was exhausted but I didn’t want to go home. I caught a bus to a beautiful park in the north of Tehran, feeling deeply content about my efforts. At the time, I didn’t know what success might mean or what rewards might come with that. Besides, I still didn’t know with certainty whether I had passed all my exams. But I was sure about one thing: I had given it all I had and all I could — that was what mattered to me — and I felt disgustingly pleased with myself. Later that evening, I was upstairs tidying my room when my mother shouted, ‘Call for you!’ I leapt down the stairs three at a time instead of my usual demure one. ‘It’s me.’ The words were whispered. ‘Is that you Saeid?’ I asked in astonishment and disbelief. His unmistakeable voice delivered the happiest news in my life. ‘Yes, it’s me, again,’ he chuckled, ‘you can’t get rid of me that easily.’ I was overjoyed to hear his voice, to be assured of his precious friendship, and to know that he was still around to annoy me. ‘When did you get out?’

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‘What do you mean?’ He sounded puzzled. ‘I mean from jail.’ ‘I wasn’t in jail; I was away from Tehran, just like you.’ He paused. ‘I returned home last week.’ Saeid G then explained that at some points even his family hadn’t known his whereabouts, which had caused them no end of worry. This may have been the reason behind his sister’s exasperated reaction to my phone enquiry. We arranged to meet straightaway that night. We hadn’t seen each other for a year, but we were both certainly more than just one year older. We had been through experiences most people probably wouldn’t face in a lifetime. At least, I fervently hope that most people never have to go through what we had endured during those months of exile. After hearing his account of the past year, I realised that we were both lucky to be able to return safely and get on with our lives. Saeid G was living with his two sisters and two brothers. His parents had been killed in a freak car accident when he was only six. I had been to his place many times and got to know his siblings well; they were wonderful people, but Saeid G was different. He was an ambitious young man with a fighting spirit. It was evident to me that he was preparing himself to play a greater role in his family’s affairs, despite being the fourth child. I was certain that his absence for such a long time had weighed heavily on his siblings, especially his older sister. It seems remarkable to me that he was so well adjusted, considering his tragic family history. The insecurities and emotional turmoil which had plagued his siblings seemed to fall away from him. It was no surprise to me that he took on his familial responsibilities with such fervour. Our friendship had begun during Year 10 at high school, which coincided with the 1979 revolution in Iran and all the associated political, social and religious upheavals.

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I had just discovered girls, two in particular whom I wanted to know better, and was obsessively working on a plan to approach one of them and hoping I would have the courage to do so. Unfortunately, the revolution put an end to all those plans, and from then on, like many other teenagers, Saeid G and I were infected by revolution fever and began to follow developments avidly, reading newspapers and listening to a variety of radio stations. Though still young, we quickly realised that the clergy had hijacked the revolution, and that they had a hidden autocratic agenda to reinvent an Islamic state. Soon we were drawn to the left-wing parties and finally ended up where were now. ‘Have you heard from Bahman and Mahmoud?’ he asked me. Those two were also involved in our activities, but not to the same extent as Saeid G and I, so they had continued their normal lives in Tehran, attending school and preparing for final exams like everyone else. ‘Yep, I’ve been in touch with them. They’re both OK.’ But it was Saeid G and I whose lives were intertwined. We couldn’t go for more than a few days without catching up to chat and have fun, staying up late, cheating at cards, joking about each other’s flaws and laughing at the pranks we played. Never again have I experienced such an intense friendship. Perhaps it was our age; perhaps it was the times in which we lived. I still recall the nights Saeid G and I nervously distributed flyers in Tehran, cautiously working our way through our designated streets despite the ever-present security forces. ‘Watch out! Hide! Their car’s just round the corner!’ These days young people engage in parkour as a sport, but we had to practise it to stay safe and free. I still vividly recall the time when the two of us jeopardised our lives and battled, weaponless, against the armed militia to rescue another

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activist. Perhaps it was all madness, but it was selfless, pure and intended for a greater good. Since then I have noticed and marvelled at the people from different walks of life who actively support various causes: the volunteer firefighters who put their lives on the line to fight bushfires here in Australia, the environmentalists who undertake dangerous voyages to protect whales, those who travel to the afflicted parts of the world with humanitarian aid and those who jeopardise their lives for equality and freedom in their lands. These people share certain principles and characteristics; they live in a realm where superficiality and egotism are less common. It is a rare and astonishing thing to meet someone whose integrity and selflessness reaches the very core of their being. Saeid G was such a person. Like many, Saeid G and I were non-violent but we were fighters nonetheless. Our guns were our flyers. We believed in the power of words, and we tried to do our share without thought for the consequences, although we knew that we could not escape them forever.

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The first day after my final exams, I stayed in bed for longer than usual. It was a strange feeling to lie peacefully in bed without worrying about exams, Saeid G, or anything else. Worry had been my constant companion for at least the previous two years and suddenly it was gone. Is it true or I am dreaming? I wondered. For better or worse, it had kept me on my toes and made me run when I was tired, fast when I was hungry, and endure loneliness for longer. Worry was a dreadful emotion I could live without but now I wasn’t sure if I knew how. As I lay in bed, my mind wandering, I had a sudden memory of Hanna. There was one thing I had to do — call Hanna. I had no idea why I was drawn to her, but I blindly followed the inner urges that lifted me out of my bed. After giving myself a rather long prep talk, I nervously picked up the phone. ‘How did you go with your final exams?’ I asked after the usual greetings.

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‘Not sure really,’ she replied indifferently. ‘If I pass all my subjects I’ll be thrilled.’ I mentally changed my tactics, realising that this particular conversational well would dry up quickly. I felt a surge of desire to see her as I listened to her voice. How I loved her warm friendly voice! ‘How about catching up today? There is a good ice-cream shop in Tajrish,’ I suggested. ‘We could hang out for a bit — what do you think?’ I’d suggested Tajrish because it was a popular and posh suburb in the north of Tehran, close to her home. Hanna was a special person whom I cared about, and spending two hours on a bus getting to her was a small price to pay for her company. We planned to meet in about four hours, so I decided to have a bath while I waited. I shaved very carefully and trimmed my sideburns with the precision of a surgeon performing a delicate and dangerous operation. It took me at least half an hour to dry and brush my hair — I wanted to look perfect. Then I got into my new jeans, my stylish navy polo and my favourite shoes. I wanted every part of me to leave a good impression on her. This would be the first time I had met a girl in public. I wished I had Sepehr’s confidence with girls. He could flirt outrageously, unlike me — I was likely to get tongue-tied meeting a friend’s grandmother! I still couldn’t believe I’d managed to make the call and arrange the date, if this could be considered a date. I reminded myself I still didn’t know much about her, so perhaps there was another term for such a stage in a relationship. I felt that this was an area of my education that was sorely lacking, due to my time in hiding. I felt that I had missed a few important classes in the school of life. I had plenty of time on the bus to think about our future, imagining our life together, our own house and even

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our children. I really want to have three kids and I think I should tell her that from the start. Oh, I also want my kids to start learning French from an early age. I find listening to people speaking French mesmerising. Yes, I know! I was a hopeless romantic hopelessly out of my depth. I didn’t know how she felt about mountain climbing, which was almost an addiction for me. Every Friday morning I’d leave the hustle and bustle of city living and spend several hours inhaling pure air and enjoying the breathtaking scenery from one of the peaks surround Tehran. I relished the physical exercise, too. I hope she loves it, otherwise she’ll get bored on Friday mornings while I’m out climbing. My train of thought was broken when the bus driver called: ‘Tajrish.’ I got off the bus and waited in front of the ice-cream shop for Hanna to arrive, becoming increasingly anxious about this encounter as the minutes passed; I wanted everything to go well. Eventually, I saw her approaching me. She was wearing a scarf, which had become compulsory under Islamic law, as of the previous year. There was a dazzling combination of colours in her outfit, including her light green scarf, which made the whole package more splendid. She was smiling radiantly. It was like a dream. We shook hands and then entered the ice-cream shop. I wished I could hug her like in Hollywood movies and sense her in my arms. Alas, I was worlds away from Hollywood, living in a country governed by strict Islamic laws. We ordered our ice-cream and continued to chat while sitting at our table to be served. ‘Have you had ice-cream here before?’ I asked. ‘Oh yes, several times. I love their choc-chip — yuuum.’ I didn’t pursue the subject as I knew almost nothing about the

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shop or its ice-creams. Sepehr had mentioned it once, saying he thought it would be a good meeting place for us. ‘Well, tell me, what are you planning to do during your summer holiday?’ she asked warmly. I didn’t have any plans. This was my first day of break after a tumultuous and stressful year. ‘Nothing yet. I’m just going to relax a little bit. In a week or two, I should start looking for a job. I can’t stay at home doing nothing. What about you?’ I lobbed the ball back into her court. ‘We’re planning to go to Greece for three weeks next month. I’m keen to see the Greek islands, I’ve heard they’re awesome,’ she said. I had never been abroad and it didn’t seem to be within my reach in the near future. My parents had managed our scarce holidays as frugally as possible to ensure they wouldn’t be a financial burden on the family. Hanna seemed to be from a world beyond my imagination. I suddenly began to feel inferior and this alarmed me. But despite being from a different world, Hanna was quite amiable, and this was my only chance to spend time with a person of the opposite sex. In my neighbourhood, girls didn’t have the same freedom and I could barely start a conversation with any of them. In the northern suburbs, which were inhabited by wealthier and more educated people, parents were more relaxed about their daughters dating boys. However, this didn’t mean that Hanna would be permitted to go out with any boy she desired. Luckily, her mother had met my sister, which made it easier for me to spend time with Hanna. I did not intend to waste this opportunity. ‘Hey, we’re planning to go on a picnic this Friday with some friends. Would you like to join us?’ she said, her eyes sparkling. ‘Yes, that would be great,’ I replied, and we carried on with some chitchat about the boys and girls in her circle. As

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she was joking about some of them, a cheeky smile on her face, I found myself for a moment feeling safe in her warm, friendly company — a feeling I had never experienced. I wanted to sit and gaze at her for the rest of day, but she couldn’t stay long and all too soon we had to say farewell. On Friday, I met Hanna and her friends and family in a large park in the north of Tehran. Despite their wealth, her parents seemed friendly and down to earth. I wanted to make sure their first impressions of me were good so I consciously and carefully selected my words when talking to them. This is an investment on our future relationship, I thought. After a while, a group of us decided to walk to the nearby river. I used every opportunity to be near Hanna; I couldn’t get enough of her; and as we crossed the river I had to take hold of her hand to steady her — a golden opportunity. However, I was still tongue-tied, lacking confidence to strike up a conversation. At the end of the picnic, I parted from Hanna reluctantly. Back home, I had unusual feelings that made me uneasy and unsettled. I couldn’t identify my feelings for her: was I merely infatuated or was it something more? She was now a big image on my small screen, and I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I kept taking her photo out of my wallet, and that, coupled with my imagination, brought her constantly into my world, until I had made her my adorable soul mate. I didn’t think of Hanna sexually, I was too young and inexperienced for that, but I relished her company, her warm smile, and her lovely voice. Next day, I called and shyly invited her to go to a movie with me. ‘No, I can’t today. I have other things to do,’ she said, and hung up. I was a bit put out but tried to busy myself with a new book. After a few unsuccessful attempts to focus on the

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print I gave up. My mind was racing; revolving around Hanna. I got out my notebook. I was in the mood to compose a poem: Being with you holding your hands staring into your eyes I see you … and the clock ticks no more. The words poured out — it felt effortless. Is this how Shakespeare was drawn to poetry? I wondered. And why Nima Yushij penned the most touching poems in the history of mankind? My pen was compensating for my disabled tongue, freeing a torrent of hidden emotions. I didn’t want to be rejected again, so I decided not to call Hanna for a few days. I really didn’t know how to deal with this situation, and there was nobody I could go to for advice. Despite the gravitational pull of my virtual world, I tried to turn back to real life and meet up with some of my old schoolfriends. My whole generation was stuck in limbo. We didn’t know if we would ever get a chance to continue our education. Also, the war was reaching new depths, and the regime had left only one avenue for my generation of boys and young men: join the army for compulsory national service. The economy was crippled and the entire nation was feeling the pinch. The standard of living was plummeting at a rate beyond our comprehension; prices were soaring while salaries remained unchanged. I was still single, without responsibilities for a family, but I could see how hard it was for my father to make enough money to cope with the rising cost of living. Three weeks after my final exams I had exhausted my savings. The answer to empty pockets was to find a job, and as luck would have it, I found a temporary position in a photography

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shop. They needed someone to help with the paperwork and run errands. I had always been fond of photography and the new job was a good chance to pursue my interest in this fascinating art. Instead of operating from a traditional shop, the business was in an apartment with three rooms and a large hall. One room was for taking photos, the second was for developing films and the third was for printing. It was located near the office of the Roads and Transport Department and as a result we had dozens of customers every day needing photos for their driver’s licence. This meant that we were frantic in the mornings. My job was to make sure that the films reached the development room and the negatives were placed in the queue for printing. As a part of my job, I also had to help with wedding shoots. I found it exciting to see women in their colourful clothing, dancing and laughing out loud. Sometimes I would be distracted by it and my boss would yell at me: ‘Come on pal, get moving!’ At the first wedding, I fell in love with the bride. She was gorgeous and I couldn’t take my eyes off her during the shoot. I was very jealous of the groom holding her and kissing her. The day after the wedding, I pinched one of her photos and decided to keep it for myself. It didn’t take me long to notice that a couple of women were frequenting our shop, usually in the afternoon, spending more than an hour in one of the rooms with the two business owners. Though still too ignorant to make sense of the mystery, I was sure those meetings were not about photography. I also noticed that the owners took turns meeting the women. I dumbly shared my discovery with another employee who was a few years older than me. ‘Ha ha, they need entertainment after busy mornings!’ he said sarcastically. ‘Did you know that they are both married?’ I gradually became desensitised to what was happening

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almost every week in that room. I didn’t realise it at the time, but as I look back, I can see that my moral compass was slowly shifting as I was exposed to the realities of life. Instead I focused my attention on learning the skills of developing negatives and printing. One afternoon, I happened to open a conversation with one of the women who usually stayed longer in the shop. She was in her mid thirties, with short straight hair, beautiful dark eyes and purple lips, which I took to be a sign of excessive smoking. Her name was Pari. ‘I’m a nurse and work as a casual in a couple of hospitals,’ she said. ‘It must be a very hard and stressful job, especially in the busy Tehran hospitals,’ I said. ‘True. And the pay doesn’t reflect such an intense and demanding job.’ Pari was good to talk to and after a few weeks I felt more comfortable around her. We gradually began to have short chats when nobody was nearby. One afternoon, I saw an article about a woman giving birth to triplets and excitedly turned to her: ‘It’s really amazing, look, three babies!’ ‘I’ve helped deliver twins before but not triplets. It’s really difficult for mothers to go through such an ordeal.’ She sighed. For the first time in my whole life I wondered how babies were born. I had imagined that a woman’s tummy would be cut and the baby would be taken out. ‘Isn’t it just a routine operation … taking the baby out?’ I asked. Yes, you can laugh, but education was very different in those days. ‘That’s the easy way. But most deliveries are still natural these days,’ she replied. ‘What do you mean, natural?’ I asked, confused. She looked at me suspiciously, studying the bewildered and honest expression on my face.

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‘You really have no idea what a natural birth is?’ she asked in astonishment. I wished the Earth would crack open, giving me a way to escape this embarrassing conversation. Now even Pari knew how daft and ignorant I was. I hadn’t studied biology at high school and hadn’t received such basic knowledge from any other source. Neither my parents, nor my teachers had given me any insight into this subject, and there certainly had not been any sex education. I should have been more curious about it during my years in high school instead of following politics and the stupid news. During my time in primary school and high school, we were never taught about sex or even the development of our bodies during puberty. I do remember that every change in my body was shocking and confusing. From the first wet dream, the first appearance of the ugly curly body hairs, to the recent feelings of infatuation and desire, I felt miserable and baffled. Undoubtedly, this had much to do with our culture too. Living in a country with Islamic beliefs leads people to a ‘hush-hush’ culture where such matters remain behind closed doors. Even in your own home, you tend to keep concerns inside your room and do not share them with your family. Looking back, I remember hearing about some cases of sexual abuse by family members, which left the abused children with serious psychological problems. Who was responsible for the sexual abuse? Clearly the perpetrator, but was the government also partly responsible for not educating the children at primary school? Or the parents for perpetuating a culture of ‘everything must remain behind closed doors’? In contrast, after we migrated to Australia, I was relieved to know that my own daughter was receiving sex education when she was in Year 6. What can be more important than knowing about our own bodies?

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Because she was a nurse, Pari didn’t sound too uncomfortable explaining natural birth to me, in the best way that modesty allowed, and making sure that I understood. It was an awkward and embarrassing encounter, discussing the baby-making business, but somehow it brought us closer to each other. From that day on, it felt as if we had a special relationship. I couldn’t figure the nature of our connection but it certainly wasn’t based on sexual attraction. I was sure she could see that I enjoyed our conversation and friendship and perhaps this was the reason she started to open up. ‘Have you been married before?’ I asked, assuming she was not married now — after all, she was in a sexual relationship with my boss. ‘Yes. It was a terrible experience. He ended up being a drug addict and no matter how much his family and I tried, he didn’t have the resolve to quit. So I had no other choice but to get a divorce.’ She sighed. As she talked, I began to sense that she saw herself as a victim. She believed that her parents were responsible for the unhappy years she had left behind and therefore she had deserted them. I felt uneasy about her attitude, and her beliefs. ‘Obviously, your parents were responsible for your failed marriage, but they are not responsible for the life you live now,’ I argued, but I wasn’t experienced in debating and couldn’t convince her. She believed that her life had been ruined by others and she couldn’t do much about it. Gradually I lost interest in our conversations because of her attitude towards her future, and returned to my work, honing my skills in photography. Given my limited knowledge of life for a woman in her circumstances, I knew my judgement was harsh, but it was perhaps a good excuse to distance myself from her. I was anxiously awaiting my examination results. At long last they came out, and I was relieved to discover that, except

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for Chemistry, I had passed all my exams reasonably well. I could now celebrate the successful completion of my highschool education. A week later, Hanna was back from her holiday in Greece. Sepehr was throwing a party to celebrate the end of highschool exams and luckily I was invited. I couldn’t wait to see Hanna. She was constantly in my thoughts and had become an obsession. When I met her at the party, I was thrilled, and also distinctly aware that my feelings about her had changed. I had been looking forward to her handsome face, her smile, her smell, but at the same time I was overwhelmed by a feeling of vulnerability. As far as I could tell, Hanna hadn’t made any effort to fix her place in my heart, nor did I have any intention of granting her such a prime spot. It just happened. I couldn’t relax beside her and in order to put myself out of my misery I started talking. ‘I passed all my exams. How about you?’ ‘Me too. High school is officially over. Hooray!’ she said in her familiar cheeky tone. ‘Just don’t ask me about my marks!’ Girls weren’t required for national service, unlike boys, so they had better options, though these were inherently limited due to their gender and by Islamic laws. ‘Is there anything in the pipeline for you?’ I asked, assuming girls with well-off parents should have better prospects. ‘Not sure yet. My dad is thinking of sending me to Germany to continue my education. My cousin is over there,’ she explained. One part of my brain began to imagine what it would be like for Hanna to study in another country — I knew it would be a fantastic opportunity for her — but another part of my brain released unsettling chemicals at the thought of losing her. I felt my stomach churn and my head spin, and suddenly lost interest in talking about it anymore.

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‘Are you reading these days?’ I asked, trying to change the subject. ‘Nothing really. I’m not into reading much,’ she replied. I thought perhaps she hadn’t been exposed to good books, and decided it would be my mission to remedy that. ‘I have several excellent novels that I can bring you to read,’ I suggested enthusiastically. ‘Like what?’ she asked, not sounding much interested in the subject. ‘For instance, The Enchanted Soul or John Christopher by Romain Rolland.’ I wanted everyone I knew to get to know Rolland and his magnificent works. He was beyond just an author; he was my mentor, my spiritual guru, and my godfather. During the past tumultuous years, he had been my companion, encouraging me to pull myself together in grave situations. However, to get Hanna off to a smooth start, the first book I gave her was a Persian novel, Her Eyes, by Bozorg Alavi. It was a very popular Persian novel, easy to read, with a sprinkling of political events. Carried away by my own enthusiasm, I handed her my notebook. ‘These are some of my own poems. Let me know what you think.’ ‘Wow! You’re a poet?’ She flicked through the pages with a look of admiration ‘Sure, I’ll let you know my opinion.’ What possessed me? Perhaps it was that most of the time I felt terribly inferior to her and her friends. I’m not good-looking, I don’t have wealthy parents, I have nothing to offer her, she deserves better. I was imprisoned by my own thoughts and perceptions, unable to be myself. I didn’t like myself and saw myself as barely worthy of many things others enjoyed, including having a girlfriend. Perhaps I gave Hannah my poems to make an impression and say: ‘Hey, I’m somebody.’ I was intensely conscious that I wasn’t

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like Sepehr, who could bring girls under his spell with his mischievous charm. When I called her a week later, I asked her about my poems. ‘I found some of them quite touching, but I didn’t like the rest,’ she said frankly. ‘How did you find the book? How many pages have you read so far?’ ‘I didn’t have time to read it,’ she said. I could sense the lack of enthusiasm in her voice. I didn’t know what to say. Books and politics were my only topics of conversation. It was kind of obvious that I wasn’t generating good vibes, and that I didn’t have a chance of being with her but even so I kept gazing at her photo whenever I was on the bus, or at work as I waited for the negatives to be developed, or at home in my bedroom. A month later, Sepehr gave me the shocking news: ‘Hanna’s getting married to her cousin’s friend. He’s based in Germany.’ I was shattered. What could I do? I was only a high-school graduate without a proper job. I still had the huge obstacle of compulsory national service ahead of me. In contrast, she was free and had everything she needed for her own happiness. I had nothing to offer her but my love. I had to let her know how I felt about her. ‘Hi Hanna,’ I said when she picked up the phone, my voice quivering. Within a moment or two, she detected that I was upset. ‘What’s up? You sound terribly sad,’ she said. ‘Er … Sepehr told me you’re getting married. Is it true?’ ‘Yes, it’s true. Everything’s arranged and I’ll be going to Germany within six months. Isn’t that great?’ She sounded ecstatic about the prospect, which only intensified my agony. ‘Hanna …’ I paused, uncertain if I could utter the crucial

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words. ‘Hanna, I’m not sure if you have ever noticed how I feel about you.’ She said nothing and after a few seconds I checked that she was still on the line. ‘Hello, Hanna, are you still there?’ ‘I’m getting married very soon. I’ve always considered us to be friends and nothing more and if you are fair, you know that I’ve never said or done anything outside a friendship.’ She was speaking like an adult. ‘Remember, we live in Iran. Please never call me again.’ With this she hung up without waiting for me to speak. The delicate crystalline lattice of love, which had contained my world for the last few months, shattered in an instant. I dialled her number again, ‘Hello? Hanna …’ I said desperately. She hung up again as soon as she heard my voice. I knew that was it. There was no point in calling her again; she wouldn’t talk to me anymore. I felt rejected, empty and mortified. I wished I could leave planet Earth and find a place on Mars to hide from all that embarrassment and humiliation. What had I done? I wished I could take back all I had told her but it was too late now. I lay on my bed and closed my eyes, all the words exchanged with Hanna swirling in my head. I rolled over and groaned, burying my face in the woollen blanket. It was all in my head. How did it happen? How stupid and pathetic! I kept chastising myself for hours. If your first love has been mutual, most likely you don’t have the slightest idea how devastating it is to be rejected after a one-sided affair. Looking back, my feelings for Hanna at the time were pure, true and real. Yes, I loved her with all my heart, but perhaps very blindly. She was the only girl who had showed compassion and friendship to me, and in reaction to that, I had fallen in love with her. I was a fool who didn’t know how to befriend a girl, miserably inexperienced, and I was now paying for the classes I had missed in the school of life.

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I never heard from Hanna again. At first I was very resentful but in time common sense prevailed and I could put things in perspective. I harbour no resentment towards her. Undoubtedly, she is now a wonderful mother and wife. I hope one day she reads this memoir and understands how inexperienced was my heart at the time, and how much I valued her kindness. Besides, I hope she likes the alias I’ve chosen for her! Hanna’s distressing rejection was complemented by what happened at work the next day. My manager called me to his office. ‘You know it’s a serious offence to employ men who haven’t completed their national service, don’t you?’ he said in a friendly tone. ‘Now that you’ve finished your high school, you’re automatically required to enlist. Unfortunately, I have no other choice but to ask you to leave, otherwise I’ll get into trouble.’ ‘I understand. When do you want me to leave?’ I asked. ‘Within the next two weeks.’ He looked sympathetic, but I knew he was in an awkward position. I thanked him for giving me the opportunity to work there and agreed to leave on his terms. I had always feared sliding to the very bottom of the valley, and now I was right there. No job, no university, no certainty about my future and no hope of escaping from the war. And to top it all off, my humiliating first love had ended in heartbreak. After a few days of living in my own cocoon, filled with grief and self-pity, I picked up John Christopher by Rolland and started reading some of the chapters in which Rolland elegantly leads John through difficult circumstances. I kept reading, trying to find an explanation for the unrivalled mess of my own life. A couple of weeks later I enlisted for national service to serve in the army of a government I loathed. I had never felt so low in my life. As I was walking home in the twilight,

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immersed in my own chasm of self-pity and doubt, the rough and unpleasant cry of a crow snapped me back to reality. I looked up and saw the profiles of the mighty mountains around Tehran and suddenly heard a voice in my head: This is it, you can’t go any lower. It’s time to climb back up.

Gavileh-Marivan, 1983 Standing in front of our base

Tehran, 1988 With Bahman, Mahmoud, Saeid G

Tehran, 1988 My engagement

Iran, 1996 Family holiday with Susan and Soha

Sydney, 1999 In Mobil uniform with Soha

Tehran, 2013 With Saeid G

Sydney November 19, 2012 My question on Q&A had a widespread coverage in the media

Tehran, 2013 My family

Sydney, 2014 Book Club meeting, including the book author

Bali, 2014 Family holiday with Susan and Soha

Sydney, 2015 At my Toastmasters Club

Sydney, 2012 Writing Group; with Mary and Kelly

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Like a soldier ant I was helplessly summoned to war, defenceless against the leaders who sat perched above us all with their magnifying glasses, tormenting the innocent Persian (and Iraqi) ants who were forced to do their bidding. What choice did I have? I had to enlist and complete my national service if I wanted any chance of a viable future. Enlisting was risky and wretched but better than a life without education, a job or the freedom to live and travel. There seemed to be no end to the madness and chaos in Iran. The demonstrations prior to the revolution had frequently turned to violence and bloodshed. These had been followed by intense upheaval during the dangerous months when the Shah’s police and military forces were fighting to hold on to power, not to mention the anarchy that was inherent in the revolution itself. That the revolution was followed by political unrest and the fierce confrontation between the Islamic regime and the political parties that were campaigning for democracy.

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For me this had manifest itself in my being forced to flee my home, creating a legacy of anxiety which remained acutely alive in my psyche for some time. On top of all this, we had to confront the ugly face of war with Iraq, which had begun in September 1980. The Iraqui leader Saddam Hussein had noticed the chaos in Iran and decided to expand his dominion by capturing the oil-rich province in the south of Iran, Khuzestan. What a caring neighbour. Saddam made his ambitious decision with the endorsement of the Gulf States, who found our regime’s Pan-Islamic rhetoric threatening. With our country engulfed in chaos, the invasion was quick and successful; Khuzestan was annexed to Iraq. All hell broke loose and the Islamic regime announced a holy war against Iraq, more to defend the Islamic Revolution than the country! Iran, once mighty militarily, was now crippled. Senior generals had either been executed by the regime or forced into retirement, and thousands of army officers had been purged. The government, in all its wisdom, decided that protecting itself against a possible coup was more important than retaining effective military strategists and leaders. There was also a shortage of spare parts for our US-made equipment due to the sanctions imposed by America after the revolution. The new paramilitary organisation, the Islamic Revolutionary Guard, which had been created to protect the regime, was expected to accompany the military and repel the Iraqi forces. Another militia group was also founded in response to the invasion, the Army of Twenty Million, commonly known as the Basij. The Basij were poorly armed and had members as young as twelve and as old as seventy. They often acted in conjunction with the Revolutionary Guard, launching so-called ‘human wave attacks’. This should explain the staggering number of casualties and why this war became one of the deadliest wars in the twentieth century.

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I still remember the first siren on the loud speakers when Iraqi planes bombed Tehran airport in an attempt to destroy our military aircraft. I was filled with fear and knew things could only get worse. The number of casualties was growing rapidly, evident from the high number of posters and memorial altars set up in front of the houses, coupled with the incessant recital of the Koran played on loud speakers, especially in less affluent suburbs and towns. This wasn’t too visible in the north of Tehran; they could afford to send their sons abroad through legal channels or illegally through our borders with Turkey or Pakistan. Martyrdom quickly became the greatest honour in our country and the families of martyrs were held in high esteem, receiving special privileges. Almost all street names changed to Martyr Ali Akbari, Martyr Karim Majdi, and so on. Families were breaking up, brothers were losing brothers, mothers were losing sons. This was the horrifying reality we had to endure every day. In addition to ground offensives, Iraq bombed our cities with aircraft and missiles, in order to put pressure on the Iranian regime to accept their proposed ceasefire. Scores of innocent people were killed and the spirit of our nation was wounded. The sirens became our nightmares — each time we heard them, we feared we would be the next target. Terror was palpable at home, at work and in the streets of my home town, Tehran. How much I wanted to believe John Lennon’s lyrics and that there was nothing to kill or die for, and that people could live in peace. My problem was that I could no longer even imagine peace, order and security in Iran. There were no positive outcomes from this war. Our wealth was being spent on sending troops, supplies and artillery to the front line, money that could have been spent on welfare,

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health, infrastructure and education for our children and young people. Probably there are methods for estimating the financial damage caused by the war, but I know of no method for gauging the immense mental and emotional injurieswe suffered. But for me, at that stage, much of the horror of the war was abstract. The war truly started for me in 1983. The Iraqi forces had already been repelled by the Iranian army, which had regained virtually all the lost territory by June 1982. With this triumph, the Iranian government gained an edge in deciding the future of the war. Both countries were torn apart by the vicious conflict. Some towns near the border with Iraq had been destroyed entirely or severely damaged with much loss of life. Australians in the past have counted the costs of sending their young men and women to war, but for most Australians today, things are very different. As I write this, the Australian government is preparing to withdraw its remaining troops and conclude its involvement in the war in Afghanistan. The Australian people have felt the loss of, and mourned the deaths of each of the forty diggers killed. In contrast, when I arrived to enlist, over one hundred thousand soldiers and civilians had already been killed and many more had been injured. Our economy had been profoundly impaired by two years of war. The Iranian people, who had been used to a life of prosperity and abundance just before the revolution, now had to stand in long queues for their rations. Many items such as sugar, flour and tobacco had been rationed after the first year of the war. People were furious with the Iraqi troops for invading Iran and causing so much devastation and so many casualties. This anger was masterfully harnessed by the Islamic regime, and its gigantic propaganda machine was constantly feeding on and encouraging people’s anger with empty nationalistic

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and ideological nonsense. For instance, TV and radio stations were constantly playing anthems to inspire deep nationalist and religious beliefs in ordinary people and persuade them to support the war. In order to stop the bloodshed in the region, even countries like Saudi Arabia announced that they were ready to compensate Iran for a significant portion of the damages suffered during the war, but only if the Iranian government agreed to end the war. This wasn’t enough for the Islamic regime. The supreme leader wasn’t ready for the war to end just yet. Khomeini insisted on deciding for forty million people. He wanted to use the momentum not only to remove Saddam from power but also to end the existence of the Israeli state. In line with the international community, the majority in Iran believed that the war should end immediately to stop the bloodshed and further destruction of the two nations and their economies. I also wanted the bloody war to cease instantly. I despised the war and, moreover, I found it unbearable to be a soldier in the Islamic regime’s army. For days I kept my fingers crossed in the hope of seeing a resolution to the war. It was all in vain. Like many, I was doomed to fight. I had already been traumatised by events before and after the revolution, and now my life was on hold because of this atrocious war. Fortunately, on the day that I capitulated and went to enlist, I found Farshid, one of my schoolfriends, in the queue. He was a fun guy, hefty, but very good at making light of things. ‘Ready to go and liberate the world?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘Yep! I think you and I alone are enough — we don’t need these others. We two can liberate the oppressed people of the world!’ I pulled a face and laughed. ‘You know what?’ he paused. ‘After we conquer the world, I’m going to have wives in three countries — a blonde German, an Iraqi belly dancer, and a French supermodel.’ He laughed

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heartily. ‘Can you imagine a sexy French girl in an Islamic hijab? Ha ha.’ I was hoping to spend my three months of military training in my home town, Tehran. As luck would have it, Farshid and I were both sent to a barracks in the north of Tehran. After some basic instructions from one of the sergeants, we were led to our dormitory. There were twenty bunks there and I happened to share with a guy called Sina — he got the top bunk and I had the bottom. From the first encounter, I could tell that he was a decent bloke. That was a relief in itself as I had been apprehensive about the guys who would be sharing the dormitory with me. Most of the young men seemed pensive and I could tell some of them had never spent a night away from their families; a few were chatty and cheerful. Traditionally, most parents in Iran had welcomed national service for their sons because they believed it would make them more independent and responsible, but this belief had been undermined by the dread of losing their sons in the war. Sina and I hit it off straightaway and after we’d introduced ourselves we exchanged information about our families, studies and the like. It became apparent to me that we weren’t quite on the same wavelength, yet we could tune in and connect easily. He didn’t seem to be cultured or politically insightful but he appeared to be emotionally mature and perceptive. It was 9 p.m. when the lights were switched off, abruptly indicating it was time to sleep. It took more than half an hour before the tumult in the dormitory dropped to quiet whispers, and then complete silence. I lay in bed, unable to silence my mind, which was flashing memories and worries at speed before my exhausted mind’s eye. I didn’t know what to expect, and once again a sense of apprehension overwhelmed me. The squeaking of other beds signified that I wasn’t alone in my struggle to

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sleep. Eventually, after approximately two hours of tossing and turning in my unfamiliar bed, I fell asleep. Suddenly the door creaked open and a harsh loud cry startled me out of deep sleep: ‘Get up! Time for morning training!’ Instantly I was perched on the edge of my bed, ready to flee. It was only 4 a.m. and I found it torturous to leave my cosy bed for the chilly autumn air. My head throbbed and my eyes burned, but my momentary disorientation didn’t last. After washing my face, I could see that Sina and I were among the minority who were coping well with the shock of being so rudely awakened. Farshid wasn’t an early riser and it was fun to see him stumbling out of bed. After getting dressed and putting on our heavy boots, we were led out for morning exercise like cattle at muster. It was still too early for the sun, which was in hiding beneath its celestial doona. The training sergeant made us run five kilometres just to warm up. After stretching and strengthening exercises, including one hundred pushups, we were sent over the barriers. While I was struggling futilely to clamber over them, I noticed Sina jump over them comfortably like a well-trained athlete. ‘How the hell did you get so strong and supple?’ I asked jealously. ‘I guess it’s genetic. My body has always excelled at sport,’ he said unassumingly. I bumped into Farshid a couple of times, who was unsurprisingly in some pain. He was quite overweight and was struggling to keep up with all the hard moves and exercise. His face was sweaty and red and it was a good chance for me to tease him. ‘How’s your fat arse coming along?’ I asked in a mocking tone. ‘Piss off!’ he gasped, his hands on his back, doubled over and filling his lungs with deep, laboured breaths.

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After two hours of strenuous physical exercise, it was time for our breakfast, which appeared to be very simple; bread, feta cheese and tea. I was so hungry that I devoured everything on my plate in a few minutes. I wished I could go to bed and catch up on my sleep but we were ordered to walk to the classroom to learn about firearms. I found it enjoyable learning how to assemble and disassemble a gun. I couldn’t find no rational explanation for the pleasure we all got from working with the guns in class. Perhaps this fascination with guns was one of the reasons behind wars throughout the course of our history, I decided. A few weeks passed and the training was gradually preparing us for combat. We were taught about ammunition, a variety of weapons such as machine-guns, CPR, and some tactics useful in the battle with the enemy. My friendship with Sina was growing and we were enjoying each other’s company. His kind, pleasant character was what I needed in that harsh environment. Due to the shortage of armed forces along the border with Iraq in Kurdistan province, it was decided that we would be deployed to combat positions a month sooner, having completed only two months of training. So our instructors increased the intensity of the program because we needed to be ready for our mission, which left us all exhausted. At the end of our training we were given a couple of days to spend with our families. On the last night, all my immediate family gathered at my parents’ house to visit me before my departure. I was the only one among my brothers who had to serve at war. All three of my brothers were there but I didn’t feel close enough to share with them my thoughts and worries. However, I took the chance to have a private conversation with my brother-in-law, Hossein. ‘I don’t know what’s in store for me. It’s difficult because I don’t believe in this war, you know? If I get killed, I’ll be considered a martyr for this regime. If I kill anyone, I’ll never

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be able to forgive myself. Even thinking about it makes me shiver.’ I sighed, holding my head in my hands. ‘This is a bad situation. I can’t offer you any other option that will get you out of this bind. Any chance of getting into university and finding a decent job will present itself at the end of this rocky road,’ he replied, his voice solemn. ‘I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to take it, but if I find it unbearable, I’ll escape,’ I confided in him. ‘I trust your judgement. I assure you that you’ll have my full support if you need it.’ He patted me on the shoulder. When it was time to farewell my family, my three sisters all had tears in their eyes. My mother was weeping as she held me in her arms. It was a difficult moment for all of us. It was the second time I was leaving my family without knowing if I would ever come back. Everybody knew it was a very dangerous journey to go on. Though I was sad to leave my home and family, I managed to control my emotions and stay calm. Yes, I was scared, angry and frustrated at having no other options, but what could I do to change things? Isn’t this just a new form of slavery? I wondered. The last person I embraced was my father. ‘Don’t do anything stupid, son. I want to see you back here,’ he said, with tears in his eyes.

There were nearly three hundred soldiers in our battalion. Luckily, Sina, Farshid and I were together. The plan was to go by bus to Sanandaj, the centre of Kurdistan province, and then, after receiving special training for a few more days, we would be sent to the combat zone. Our unit was based next to a village called Gavileh on the border with Iraq, 40 kilometres west of Marivan. During our short stay in Sanandaj, our commander, Colonel Abdi, asked

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for volunteers with good levels of literacy and writing skills to come forward to take on an administrative role. He needed only one person but seven people volunteered, including me. I knew this was probably my only chance to avoid fighting in the war zone, so I decided to fight tooth and nail to win. Colonel Abdi tested our writing abilities with different tasks, and two of us were short-listed; eventually I was given the position. For a person who had no faith in the war, it was a real piece of good luck. Though very tough and strict, Colonel Abdi seemed to be a decent and likable man. ‘Your writing skills are good but you need to improve your handwriting — almost all letters are handwritten over there,’ he commented. After further training, we were given our combat gear, including automatic firearms. We picked up our duffel bags and guns, sat on the back of the military trucks and were sent to our designated station, Gavileh. It was going to be a five-hour trip and we didn’t know what to expect. Marivan is a small town in the north-west of Iran near the border with Iraq. After the revolution, the left-wing parties in Kurdistan began to campaign for independence, but their demand was rejected emphatically. On many occasions, the Islamic regime tried to crush them with full military force, demolishing several villages the rebels frequented. After our vehicles left Marivan, we found ourselves in a cradle of mountains. The road to Gavileh was horrendous — rocky, winding, with steep uphills and downhills. I was feeling nauseous and very unsettled. We had been warned about rebel snipers and landmines in that area, and we anxiously watched the mountains around us, expecting an untimely death at any instant. It was nearly 5 p.m. and we were only half an hour from our base, but the sun had already disappeared behind the giant mountains.

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As we got closer to our destination, the terrifying sound of explosions intensified. I could feel goosebumps standing up on my skin. We were all silent. It was almost dark when our truck reached the base. While we were getting off the truck, amid the distant rumble of continuous artillery fire and explosions, the sky and the landscape suddenly lit up with the ethereal glow of tracers. I was shaking in my boots because the tracers meant that enemy aircraft would appear above our heads in no time. And they did. The sound resembled the thunder that follows lightning. In the brilliance of the flares, I could clearly see the faces of other soldiers, wearing masks of sheer terror, but the guy standing next to me, Ebi, looked more panicky than the others. The week before our arrival, the Iranian army had launched a substantial new offensive on the border with Iraq near Marivan; the Battle of Valfajr. Though our base was kilometres away from the combat zone, it was not exempt from heavy artillery fire by the Iraqi army. It wasn’t easy to comprehend and accept the severity of the circumstances in which we found ourselves. We were a bunch of city boys faced with what we had only seen in the movies. Our group was quickly led to the trenches. I had to follow my commander to the building at the base of the hill. Now I could appreciate the advantages of serving as an administrator. I was to share a pair of bunk beds in a rather small room with another administrator, Vahid, who had held that position for more than three months. He seemed to be a friendly guy and willingly helped me settle in. ‘Don’t worry about all the noise outside. We’re not in immediate danger. The main battle at present is beyond the mountains and shouldn’t affect us too much.’ It felt like he was trying to comfort me. It was hard to believe what he had just said when the pandemonium outside felt so real. ‘Since the Battle of Valfajr began, the artillery fire

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hasn’t relented. It’s deafening really, but I’m positive that we aren’t in serious jeopardy yet.’ I was fiddling with a broken radio when one of the soldiers walked up and asked for some painkillers. After getting the pills he lingered for a chat; he knew about my success in getting the administrative role. ‘Good job! This should make a hell of a difference for you in Gavileh.’ He was of average height with olive skin, not very muscular, but he seemed fit and strong. He introduced himself. ‘I’m Darius.’ His friendly face and bright smile were captivating and soon we were talking and laughing as though we had known each other for years. His pleasant character made it easy for me to feel relaxed around him and that encounter opened the door to friendship in an alien land. Both the Iraqi and Iranian artillery continued to belch heavy fire as night fell. The ear-splitting noise and the glare from the tracers kept us captivated and alarmed throughout the night. I must have fallen asleep at some point while tossing and turning in my bunk but a loud and panicky conversation brought me back to consciousness.

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‘How is he now? Is he bleeding?’ asked Colonel Abdi on the radio. ‘He is bleeding and in pain, sir.’ I heard the response on the radio. ‘Put him on a stretcher and bring him to this building. First thing in the morning I’ll organise for his transport to a hospital in Marivan,’ ordered Colonel Abdi. I knew I was going to set eyes on the first casualty of the war in this new chapter of my life. ‘What has happened?’ I couldn’t wait for the answer. ‘One of the new guys has shot himself in the foot. You may know him. His name is Ebi Akbari,’ he said. ‘Oh my god! Was it an accident?’ I asked in shock. ‘I don’t know the details yet, but this is not the first time I’ve heard about such incidents. When you are at the end of your tether, a shot in the foot can get you back home, can’t it?’ he replied with a smirk on his face. I couldn’t speak. This was something new and I was quietly trying to make sense of the level of desperation behind it. How could someone shoot himself? It was all very tragic and confusing. It wasn’t long before Ebi was brought to our building on a stretcher. One of the sergeants who was a first aid officer rushed to check his condition. His foot was propped slightly above his body to minimise blood loss. He was already on strong sedatives and painkillers to alleviate the pain. While he was groaning, I looked at his face, trying to read the signs: was he relieved to be returning home even with a permanent disability? Had the self-harm been premeditated? It was impossible to tell. When the sunrise heralded the beginning of a new day, Ebi was put in the back of a van and sent to Marivan for treatment. Did he do the right thing? This was a question that puzzled me for hours. Probably, he would never be able to walk or run

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normally again. Is this permanent punishment lighter than the terror and torture we are dealing with here? Perhaps the main difference is that the fate of the former is predictable. At least he has a choice now over the direction of his life, instead of the government. Four years later I happened to bump into Ebi limping in one of the northern suburbs of Tehran. It had taken him three years to be finally acquitted in a military court on the basis of temporary insanity. He looked peaceful and happy but I didn’t have the courage to ask him about the impact of the disability on his life. Ebi’s action demoralised a large number of the soldiers, including me. The incident, combined with the mayhem all around us, magnified the hazards of our plight. To be able to function, I resorted to sleeping tablets — I had access now to a large stock of medicine in the building I was occupying. Within the first couple of weeks it became apparent to me that all kinds of medicine containing sedatives were popular among the soldiers. Some of the medicine, such as cough syrup, would run out quickly within a couple of days of delivery because of their tranquilising ingredients. Also, within days, it became inescapably clear that drug use in the trenches was common. The use of grass or opium was spreading among soldiers and army personnel. I wasn’t sleeping or guarding in the trenches and the information I received was mainly through Sina who loathed any form of smoking. He confided in me that a couple of sergeants were full-on drug addicts. I found this revelation horrifying. It was terrifying to know that these men were making life or death decisions for the soldiers under their command. Many of the army personnel were married and had children. It was heartbreaking to know that the unbearable situation in the combat zone had led them to resort to destructive drugs in order to numb their fear and pain.

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I soon became aware of the ubiquitous use of cigarettes as well — almost everyone smoked. After the first month, I joined them. The army gave everyone free boxes of cigarettes, which made it seem more commonplace and acceptable. I was lured into believing that smoking eased the tension and pain. Obviously, the systematic infection of mind and body with nicotine was a lot less costly than providing support for the mental and emotional health of young soldiers. Another challenge we all faced was the lack of water. None of us was able to bathe or wash very often, and when we did, we had to go in groups of two or three down to the nearby river. We would set up a campfire and hang metal buckets of water over it to heat. Finally we helped each other by pouring warm water over ourselves as we washed. The fierce fighting in the Battle of Valfajr near Marivan didn’t ease. At nights, I was awakened almost every hour, listening to the roar of the aircraft, artillery fire and explosions. Contrary to what I had been told, I didn’t seem to be getting used to it, and I could not imagine the suffering of those at the front. Stationed in the shadow of the battleground, we witnessed Iraqi warplanes hovering over our heads many times, with our anti-aircraft weapons firing thousands of lethal bullets in the hope of downing them. Although they didn’t bomb us, perhaps because we weren’t involved in the offensive, their vicious bombs killed infantrymen on the front line. The sacrifices and slaughter I witnessed, and some of my friends and countrymen experienced, was appalling, humiliating, and shattered our innocence. Even now I can visualise with perfect clarity a horrible scene I witnessed in Sanandaj, where the row upon row of corpses were waiting for identification and burial. Such war memories will never leave me. From what we heard on BBC Persian radio, Iraq was confident that its powerful military machine would fend off any attacks

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by Iran. After weeks of fighting, the Iranian army seemed unable to get the upper hand, and the Battle of Valfajr appeared increasingly futile. The outcome was thousands of casualties, the so-called martyrs whose deaths left their families devastated, and the injured who were destined to endure physical disability plus all the emotional consequences of the battle for the rest of their lives. In order to force the Iranian army to end this particular offensive, Iraq stooped to using chemical weapons in Halabja, nearly 50 kilometres from Marivan. Thousands of men, women and children were killed or left paralysed or harmed in different ways. Like many others, I feared the use of chemical weapons might spread and reach out for me, too. The cruelty and inhumanity seemed to have no limits. It was, in my mind, comparable to the use of the atomic bomb in Hiroshima to stop Japan from attacking the Allies. How ugly war is, how heartless, how destructive. Though I was tied up with my administrative tasks, I always tried to catch up with Sina and Farshid. They were getting sick of the appalling living conditions in the trenches. Darius also occasionally joined me in the evenings for a chat to pass the time. ‘I hear that you’re enjoying yourself here?’ I asked him sarcastically on one occasion. ‘Yes, we hold parties almost every night in the trenches. We would be honoured if you could join us,’ he replied in his usual mocking tone. I knew too well what was hidden beneath all this banter. Long hours of guarding, during the night or in bright daylight, were excruciating; every minute and sometimes every second seemed an eternity. I had endured guard duty during my military training and knew how slow the ticking of the clock could be, and it would have been so much worse under intense artillery and small-arms fire.

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Not surprisingly, there wasn’t any form of entertainment or sport. Gavileh was mountainous and there was hardly any flat land in our vicinity on which to play football or volleyball, and this, luckily, made it easier for us to forget about them altogether. Besides, we couldn’t expose ourselves to the Kurd rebels who were looking for any opportunity to attack government forces. There was nothing but constant apprehension, guarding and fighting, without relief. Like other soldiers, Darius, Farshid and Sina were unhappy with their situation. Luckily, because of their friendship with me, they could each come to my room and stay with me for a couple of hours in the evenings. Darius came alone, as he wasn’t friends with Farshid and Sina. We would have tea together, chat and pay each other out. Farshid liked to tease Sina about his girlfriend and me about my luxurious conditions in the camp. I also took pleasure in teasing him about his oversized and unfit body, especially now that he was smoking almost a packet a day. Unlike me, Sina had gone through high school peacefully, but he didn’t seem to be interested in furthering his education at university. He was keen to become a licensed carpenter. Therefore, his goal was to finish the compulsory national service and work in his much loved trade and build his future, both metaphorically and literally. By this stage we had been in Gavileh for more than a month, enduring the harsh conditions in the mountainous landscape, away from our previous city living, which now seemed luxurious, and we were beginning to feel depressed and nostalgic. Compared with other soldiers who had to live and fight in the trenches, my experience of the war zone was more tolerable. Being on guard for long hours at night coupled with the responsibility of keeping the camp safe must have been awful. ‘My finger is constantly on the trigger, ready to fire at any moving object,’ said Darius, gesturing at me as though I

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were the target. Despite his cheerful nature, at times he would lie on the floor looking lethargic and dejected. I could tell he was filled with nostalgic memories of his family and friends, despite his indomitable spirit. Gradually, our evening routines began to change. At first, Sina was reserved, but slowly he felt comfortable enough to talk about his private life. One evening, he confided in me — he was madly in love with a girl called Ziba. Sometimes I would catch him staring into space, no doubt daydreaming about her. Sina had met Ziba in his last year of high school and fallen head over heels in love with her almost at once. From what I heard, it was obvious that Ziba liked him very much, but I couldn’t detect whether she was as smitten with him as he was with her. To compensate for their separation, Sina came up with an idea: ‘I’m going to send her a letter twice a week.’ He beamed, as if he had just made a groundbreaking discovery for longdistance communication. The following night when I was reading a book, Sina walked into my room with a letter in his hand. ‘Can I read this to you?’ ‘Sina, are you sure you want to do this?’ I asked. This wasn’t something I would have liked to share. ‘You are my best friend here and I want to have your opinion about it before I send it to Ziba. You know how important she is to me. I just don’t wanna screw up.’ I was shocked to see the poor quality of his writing. Both the content and the style were basic and didn’t seem worthy of someone who had completed high school. His handwriting resembled that of a primary-school student. ‘To be honest, this is terrible,’ I said without tiptoeing around the subject. ‘After one look at this letter, she’ll probably thank the Islamic regime for conscripting you, and will probably request them to keep you in Gavileh forever!’

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‘Can you fix it for me?’ he asked sheepishly. ‘OK, I guess so. You want me to show you how to write a letter to your beloved girlfriend,’ I replied in mocking tones. After asking him in detail about the things he wanted to tell her, I reluctantly started drafting a new letter. I already knew a lot about this girl as Sina mentioned her in almost every conversation I had with him. I knew her height (average), her eyes (brown) and hair (ditto), that she was in her last year of high school, I knew about the middle-class suburb where she lived, her two younger brothers, her energetic parents ... So it wasn’t very hard for me to compose something appealing to her. I used simple words but in a rather elegant and poetic style. When I finished reading the first draft to Sina, he was quiet for a few seconds and then suddenly patted me on the shoulder: ‘This is fantastic. Thanks mate.’ He immediately started copying the letter in his own handwriting and then went off to post his first letter. A few days later, he came to me once again to draft a second letter. On that particular day, I was very homesick and dejected, looking for something to distract me from my own misery. Without any complaint or hesitation, I composed the second letter, employing a more emotive style. ‘I’m tied here by two chains exerting two different forces; one is holding me down in Gavileh, ruthlessly denying my freedom to go where I want and to do what I relish. The other force is inexorably pulling me towards you, to where I desire to be. Sometimes, I feel the intense tension in my muscles and bones. I feel I’m being torn …’ Clearly I was using Sina’s letters as a way of venting my own hopelessness and frustration. Perhaps they helped me fill the empty place in my life left by Hanna. Whatever the reason, composing love letters to Ziba became our routine; twice a week in my small room I would write while Sina watched contentedly.

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Sometimes I was a little confused about whether she was my girlfriend or his! I was becoming too involved with a girl I hadn’t even met — I didn’t know her, I didn’t love her and I didn’t want her, but mysteriously she had created her own place in my head and heart. Looking back, the letters helped me temporarily forget about the trap I was in, about the constant threats, explosions, about the precious time I was wasting to keep the Islamic regime in power. Was there anything else on the planet more torturous than that? In my youth and inexperience, I found it hard to imagine there was. Writing those letters to Ziba was like momentarily taking a vacation from real life, travelling to a world in which my imagination was free to talk, to laugh and to love again. The first letter from Ziba arrived and Sina eagerly read it to me. It gave me a sense of satisfaction to know that she had enjoyed the letters and that she was looking forward to the next ones. Sina was ecstatic. He couldn’t wait to go back home for a visit. His leave request was approved and he was granted two weeks to be with his family and Ziba. My leave was due to start the following week. I was longing to get out of that place and find myself at home in my mother’s arms. After my leave form was signed, I left without wasting a minute. I got a lift from a military vehicle to Marivan, and from there, boarded a bus travelling home. It was a fourteenhour bus trip.

I felt a bit numb walking to my neighbourhood and into my home. After months of chaos and fear, I was now allowed to enjoy myself for two weeks. It took me a couple of days until I felt a glimmer of hope amongst my blurred thoughts. I began to take pleasure from being in the company of my family and friends, eating food and drinking tea with them. I didn’t like

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talking about Gavileh and dodged their questions. I needed a real break. One day, I received a phone call from Sina who was still on leave. He wanted me to meet Ziba and I willingly accepted his offer. When I got to the park where we had arranged to meet, I spotted Sina in the distance, standing next to a rather tall girl. She looked stunning. Her face, her outfit, her scarf, the touch of makeup were all in perfect harmony. I shook her hand. ‘Lovely to meet you.’ Obviously, Sina was a fortunate boy to be with such a gorgeous girl, and frankly I envied him. Sina started explaining to her about my role in the camp and also our friendship, which gave me a little more time to glance at Ziba and study her face. She seemed so familiar and it didn’t feel as if we were meeting for the first time. She seemed very sharp, focused, and at the same time very pleasant. As I was leaving the park, fallen leaves rustled along the pavement. I wondered how the two of them were going to cope with the distance and the uncertain and dangerous nature of war. They were so young, and so in love. The following day, I received another call from Sina. ‘I’ve decided not to go back.’ ‘What? You’re going AWOL? Do you know what you’re doing, man?’ I protested. ‘Without the Military Completion Certificate you’ll have no chance of finding a good job. Besides, you may be arrested and charged for escaping from service during the war. That’s a serious offence!’ All my words fell on deaf ears. He had already made up his mind. ‘I’m not sure if I can take any more — the endless nights, the constant threats. No thanks.’ He sounded determined. I had to return to Gavileh the following week. I heard nothing from Sina until the end of my military service, except for some news I occasionally received from a mutual friend.

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He had finally decided to rejoin and complete his service. There was a punishment involved — serving extra months in the war zone. I was thrilled to know that he and Ziba were on the right track. They seemed to be a good match and I was hoping their relationship would thrive in time, as it did. When I returned to Marivan in the evening, it was like a ghost town. Its residents had left due to the Battle of Valfajr. I could see only a few military vehicles in the main street and some soldiers. I felt the air was heavy and I was already feeling nostalgic for the smiles of my family, and the comfort of my own home town. I felt a growing sense of apprehension about serving in Gavileh. I hated living in fear of my life and the thought of being a martyr for the Islamic regime was too tormenting to bear. Though I wasn’t in a direct combat position, I could see and feel what was going on. The futility of our mission was so tangible that it hurt me at every level. I heard from BBC Persian radio that after weeks of fierce fighting and bombing, the Iranian army had been forced to end its offensive. So far I had managed to avoid becoming too emotional, but deep down I knew that my tolerance and patience were gradually faltering. When I got back to our base in Gavileh, Vahid looked ecstatic because it was now his turn to go on leave. Darius occasionally paid me a visit in the evenings when he wasn’t scheduled to guard. After more than two months of active service, he still kept his sense of humour, which spiced up our chats. He was a rather religious person, but he seemed open-minded and reasonable as he listened to my uncooked ideas about life and the universe. We seemed to be far apart in our philosophies, yet we felt close, as each of us was genuinely willing to embrace the truth in the other’s viewpoint. Now that the Battle of Valfajr had lost its intensity, there was less artillery fire and bombing. As a result we didn’t feel as tense

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as before. But it didn’t take long before the Kurd rebels decided to escalate their attacks on the government forces. After the 1979 revolution, a couple of dominant political groups in Kurdistan province had begun their struggle for independence and this was fiercely rejected by the central government. Consequently, they resorted to organised militia attacks on government agencies and military bases. The same sentiment existed in the Iraqi Kurdistan province, which propelled the Kurds to declare independence when Saddam’s military capabilities diminished after the war with Iran. I personally felt hopeless finding myself caught in the middle of a conflict that had nothing to do with me. I wished I could go and tell them: ‘Hey guys, we are not here to fight you. I swear we just want to complete our two years of compulsory military service and then get on with our lives. Please don’t attack us. Don’t install landmines in the roads. Don’t ambush our convoys. Please!’ Unfortunately, they attacked our camp regularly, and their attacks were more complicated than the artillery fire or the bombing of a foreign enemy. Worst of all were the landmines, which made travel very risky. One of our cargo trucks had just gone over a landmine before my return, and the driver had been killed instantly. Fortunately, due to the strategy and discipline put in place by Colonel Abdi, we didn’t suffer too many casualties and things weren’t as terrible as they could have been under the circumstances. He was very methodical and his primary aim was to ensure the safety of those in his battalion. A few months passed and the Kurd rebels continued to harass us by attacking, setting clever ambushes, and planting landmines in the roads. As a result, our forces had to stay vigilant both day and night. One morning, when I got up at 5 a.m., I could tell from the intensity of the conversation outside my room that there had

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been another incident. Arash, who had recently joined us in the main building, was speaking loudly on the radio. I quickly got dressed and went to and find out what was happening. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked apprehensively. ‘Unfortunately, Darius was shot a couple of hours ago,’ he said, writing the details down in his notebook. I felt a great surge of anxiety in my stomach and suddenly felt dizzy. ‘Where is he now?’ I asked, still hopeful that Darius would survive. I still wanted to see his smile and listen to his jokes. ‘They’re outside the building now,’ said Arash, as he walked out. I leapt to my feet and followed him. There he was, lying on a stretcher, covered by a green army blanket. His dark brown eyes were open but they had no spark. I knew right away he was dead. My own eyes welled up. Colonel Abdi removed the blanket to identify the cause of death. He had been mistakenly shot in the back by one of the sergeants who was notorious for drug abuse. The scene was unbearably harrowing; the bullet had torn a hole in his chest and his heart had been pushed partly through his ribs. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his chest, my knees were shaking and I felt lightheaded. I just stood there, motionless, unable to take in the unimaginable tragedy. He was put in an army van and I watched sadly as it drove away. Arash walked with me back to our room. I was numb and couldn’t think clearly; in fact, I didn’t want to think, I didn’t want to talk. I simply couldn’t believe Darius was dead. I could still hear his warm voice and could vividly see his cheerful face. Has he really gone? No, it’s not possible. Arash kept talking to me but it echoed in the room like a language I didn’t recognise. He brought me water but I wasn’t thirsty. He brought me food but I wasn’t hungry. The horrors of war were penetrating my entire being. I sat on my bed and burst into tears.

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In the evening, the dusk felt darker than night and the loss heavier than I could bear. The very thought of dying like Darius in that pointless war struck terror into my heart. The image of his torn heart was too vivid in my mind. I suddenly felt I was breathing very heavily and my heart was beating double time. I rushed outside and after a few minutes of breathing the cool evening air, I managed to wrestle my unruly lungs and heart back into a semblance of calm. I sank on the step in front of the door and began to think about Darius, about his death, about our vulnerability. I hated the bloodshed, I hated the two governments, I hated all the tragedies inflicted on us. All of a sudden I got up, filled with an uncontrollable rage, and started kicking the block wall with my army boots, a suitably futile endeavour, which accurately reflected my emotional turmoil; it was like protesting against a formidable fate I couldn’t change. One of our drivers, Parviz, who was standing nearby, put his arms around me, moving me away from the wall. For days I was in agony and my heart palpitation didn’t improve. I felt that my heart was as damaged and broken as Darius’s damaged heart, which had protruded from his chest. One morning as I was still in the same miserable mood, I heard a knock on the door. ‘We’re going to Marivan this morning. Get ready!’ announced Parviz. It was one of his routine trips to Marivan for supplies and obviously he just wanted to get me out of the place. I didn’t object and mechanically got my gear on. The road was quieter than usual, as if fate itself were granting me a much-needed moment of peace to pull myself together. Even Parviz didn’t seem to be driving as fast as before. We were almost halfway on the winding mountainous road towards Marivan when an army pick-up truck overtook us and disappeared around the next bend. Seconds later, as Parviz was humming a pop song, the thunderous roar of a blast made him slam on the breaks and slow down. We guessed what

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had happened and the horrifying scene of the overturned army truck ahead of us removed all doubts; it had hit a landmine. It was one of the ways the Kurd resistance groups fought against the Islamic regime. We ran towards the truck and dragged out the passengers before the fuel tanks ignited in a second deadly inferno. Both passengers were unconscious and terribly injured, their heads covered in blood. Luckily, another pick-up truck from the same division arrived and hastily took the two injured young men to the hospital. I was shocked and petrified. That disaster was the last straw, the straw that pushed me over the edge. At that moment, I was trembling uncontrollably but I tried to keep my composure. In a few minutes we were driving towards Marivan again. ‘Those two poor buggers saved our lives by overtaking us,’ Parviz sighed. We knew too well how lucky we had been. I contemplated the fate of those two guys who would probably end up being paralysed for the rest of their lives. I’d seen the ugly face of war and suffered its vigorous blows twice in a short period of time. It was just too much for me. I didn’t believe in that war; I loathed it. That night I was in my room alone, replaying the appalling scene of Darius’s damaged heart and the horrible landmine blast. Coming to terms with the horror of war was beyond my capacity. I suddenly felt a wave of anxiety come over me, and my heart started pounding in my chest. I got up, turned on the light and drank some water. As my unusual heartbeat continued, I became more conscious of it and that added more fuel to my anxiety. There was only one remedy I knew would work: sleeping tablets. When I woke up next morning, the first thing I checked was my heartbeat. It was normal, but within moments it began to race. I felt a mild pain in my chest, which gradually radiated

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to my left shoulder. I stayed in my room all day and refused to move, unwilling to exacerbate my condition. My focus on my heart was so all-consuming that I paid very little attention to the world outside. That night I tried once more to sleep but had to resort to sleeping tablets. I endured for a few days, but there was no improvement — my heart was pounding savagely and I had bad chest pain. ‘I can’t take this anymore. My heart wants to jump out of my chest,’ I confessed to Colonel Abdi. ‘I need to see a doctor.’ He stopped flicking through the booklet he had in his hands and looked at me. ‘I’ll send you to Sanandaj tomorrow for a medical check-up,’ he said. There were several doctors in our medical centre in Sanandaj. A young doctor examined me and said, ‘You’ve got a heart palpitation. Did you have it before?’ After I explained what I had been through during the previous week, he gave me two weeks sick leave. ‘Go home and try to forget about everything. You should feel much better when you return to Gavileh.’ Within hours I was on a bus, heading home. When my older brother, Hamid, found out about my chest pain, he took me to a cardiac specialist who had been effectively treating his father-in-law. After the clinical examination and electrocardiograph, he gave me some tranquilisers. ‘I can’t diagnose any heart disease, but take these and get some rest.’ I did as he said, and after the third day I began to feel better. I had had plenty of time to think, and had come to a few decisions. ‘I really don’t want to go back to Gavileh, I can’t bear it anymore,’ I told my brother-in-law Hossein, without disclosing the ordeal I had been through. ‘Please do something.’ ‘A good friend of mine is a military doctor,’ said Hossein ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Within a couple of days, he managed to secure an appointment for me to see his doctor friend. He arranged

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for me to see two heart specialists in the military clinical services centre. He promised to make a recommendation and ask them to exempt me from service in the war zone due to my heart condition. After further thorough examinations and tests, one of them was in favour of exempting me but the second one wasn’t. ‘I can’t do this. His heart palpitation is not the result of heart disease.’ Hossein and I left the clinic disappointed. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve found someone who is related to one of the commanders in Sanandaj,’ he said. ‘I’m sure he can transfer you to Sanandaj using all these documents about your heart palpitation.’ Hossein’s promise materialised and I went to Gavileh for the last time to pick up my belongings. ‘I’m happy for you,’ said Colonel Abdi and warmly shook my hand. He was a wonderful man who never abdicated his humanity in the face of the most violent circumstances imaginable. He was a gentleman. I also farewelled Farshid, Vahid and some other boys I had befriended during my time in Gavileh. Shortly after starting my service in Sanandaj, my palpitation slowly settled down and I broke free from the shackles of the tranquilisers, which had begun to govern my daily life. It wasn’t easy at first — I couldn’t sleep for about a week until the chemistry in my body and brain recovered little by little. After two years of torment, at last I received my End of National Service certificate. I limped slowly back to the ants nest, with fewer friends. But I was free of the magnifying glass. At last I was a free man. I was free but burdened by the bitter memories of the tragedies I had witnessed and the deep emotional scars that now kept me company. My unresolved issues didn’t disappear and the awful image of Darius’s torn chest could still easily trigger my palpitations. Gradually I

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learned to suppress them, pretending they weren’t there. I thought that I had beaten them, but when the tough challenges I faced when settling in Australia caught me off-guard they brought me to my knees.

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At last, I was a free man. The shackles of war lay broken at my feet. I now had the End of National Service certificate in my hands. This meant I didn’t owe the government anything anymore. Come to think of it, like many in my generation, I had paid a huge tax for being born in that country, for a life that coincided with the revolution and the bloody war — a life tax. Yes, I was free, free to do what I wanted, free to fly anywhere I wished, but my wings were wounded and the scars from the war ran too deep. Take-off was difficult with such a heavy burden of memories — of my friends like Darius who never returned home, and thoughts of those like Sina who were still enchained in the war zone. How was I going to move forward? Walking listlessly in the streets of Tehran, I could see people living normal lives — going to work, shopping, driving their kids to school, and chatting happily. I wasn’t sure if I belonged to that crowd anymore. The streets sounded too noisy and

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the crowd too loud. Sudden sounds made me jump and the memories of war seemed to lurk around every corner, ready to pounce. I preferred the quiet of my room, even though I had to share it with my younger brother. Of course I was back safely and this should have been a reason to feel happy and get on with life, but I just felt bewildered and alienated. Though not naturally a reserved person, I had shut out everyone from my personal life. I just didn’t want to talk about it. How could any of them understand? At home, my brothers didn’t have any idea about where I had been or what I had been through. The rest of my family were also oblivious to it. There seemed to be a curtain between me and everyone around me; I felt like a stranger in my own home. Whenever the curtain rose, I was an actor on a stage. It felt like the eyes of the audience were all on me and I didn’t know my lines. I took refuge in my books, spending days in my room without going out. I needed time to readjust and reinvent myself. One morning, I overheard my mother talking to my sister on the phone. ‘I don’t know what’s going on in his head. You should speak with him,’ my mother said worriedly. Suddenly I felt angry with myself. Over the past few years, since the revolution, I had been an endless cause of concern for my family, especially my parents. I wasn’t able to communicate with them. What could I tell them about the massive anxiety I had experienced? How could I share with them the pain of losing a friend and the horrid baggage that still burdened me? Quite simply, I couldn’t. I didn’t believe they could help me and that dissuaded me from opening up. At the same time I felt guilty for making them worry about me. The last thing I wanted was to be a burden on my parents because they already had enough on their plate. I must do something. I need a job, I decided in a moment of inspiration. In a matter of minutes I was dressed and ready to go out looking

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for work. As luck would have it, within a few days I found one in a large mechanics service centre doing their office work and minding the inventory. It suited me well as the busy chaotic nature of the work kept me fully engrossed and distracted me from my own inner turmoil during working hours. Despite working intensely from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., I slowly began to regain my energy and focus. Any time disturbing thoughts of the past arose in my mind, I simply busied myself with more work. It wasn’t therapy, but it was an effective escape. That was how I managed to resume a semblance of normal life. One afternoon on my way back home, I ran into an old friend, Shahab, who was living in my neighbourhood. ‘Hi, how’re you doing? Long time no see,’ he greeted me warmly. I was pleased to see him too. Shahab was one year older than me and had finished his national service a few months before I did. His light brown eyes were full of life and the warm smile on his face was in perfect harmony with them. I felt he had an instant positive effect on me. In Saeid G’s absence — he, too, was doing his national service — I felt I desperately needed a friend. As wiser minds than mine have pointed out before, that’s the good thing about friends; we can choose them, unlike family. Shahab was living with his mum. His dad had passed away many years before and his only brother was a permanent resident in Germany. Because he was the only son left to care for his mother, he had been given the privilege of doing his national service in Tehran. His family was of Bahá’í faith. The Bahá’i faith recognises a series of prophets including Moses, Jesus and Mohammad, each of whom established a religion that was suited to the needs of the time and the capacity of the people. According to them, the latest prophet, Bahá’u’lláh, appeared in the nineteenth century in Iran. The Bahá’ís are followers of Bahá’u’lláh.

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In contrast, Muslims believe Mohammad is the last messenger who fulfils God’s promise and the previous scriptures, and therefore the Bahá’í faith is out of line and contrary to Islam. It should also be noted that according to the Koran, Jesus was a prophet and therefore the Bible has been corrupted by false claims about Jesus being the Son of God. After the Islamic regime came to power in 1979, the persecution of the Bahá’ís began and gradually intensified. All Bahá’ís in government departments lost their jobs and were systematically refused equal rights with Muslims. The only way for them to enjoy equal rights was to repent and publicly renounce the Bahá’í faith in newspapers. So next to Hatch, Match and Dispatch in the public announcements section of the newspaper, you could find announcements by Bahá’í individuals renouncing their faith. I was curious to find out more about Shahab’s circumstances, so when he invited me for tea at his place, I eagerly accepted. ‘So what are you up to these days?’ I asked. ‘After three years, the universities are now open, though the intake is very limited. I’m going to be fully ready for the next entry exam, which will take place in eight months time,’ he replied. ‘So you’re now studying full time for Konkoor?’ I asked. Konkoor was the name of the entry exam to universities. ‘Yes, I’ve already started reviewing my books. In addition, I’m tutoring Maths and Physics, which is, in fact, killing two birds with one stone; preparing for Konkoor as well as making some money.’ He grinned. I had heard that Shahab was one of the sharpest in Maths and Physics in our neighbourhood and I was not surprised to hear about his tutoring job. Shahab spoke clearly and well, which would also have been a great asset for his teaching. As we talked, I thought about the barriers he was going to confront because of his religion when he tried to enter

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university. ‘From what I hear, the Bahá’ís are not given a fair go when they apply for university.’ ‘True. After passing the exam, I’ll be expected to renounce my religion,’ he paused, ‘but I have no intention of doing that, even though I’m not practising it.’ ‘So what’s the point of studying, if you know there won’t be any open door for you?’ I asked, trying to understand. ‘You know, I’m going to make them accept me. My intention is to be among the top three in the Konkoor test. When my photo is on the front page of the national papers, it won’t be easy for them to deny me my rights,’ he said with a conspiratorial grin. ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit ambitious?’ I had no idea what it took to come first in Konkoor, but I knew it was beyond my wildest imagination. ‘I’m certain I can do it and I’m determined to make it happen.’ He looked into my eyes and clenched his fist. ‘This is my way of fighting against the abhorrent treatment of the Bahá’ís.’ Gandhi would have approved of his choice of a non-violent form of protest. I certainly admired him for standing up for his community, and was impressed by his ambitious goal. My own chances of getting into university were slim. My history of political activity against the regime was a major obstacle, and I struggled to motivate myself after the huge effort I had put into passing my final exams. Also, due to my poor performance in Year 11 and my lack of schooling in Year 12, I lacked a good foundation in important subjects like Maths and Physics. Sweating for Konkoor seemed a waste of my time. Shahab’s magnetic personality drew me to him frequently; sometimes three or four times a week. Due to his tact and sensitivity, Shahab was reluctant to go to any Muslim household for fear he would offend his friends’ parents who may not have wanted him in their homes because of his

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religion. He always willingly offered to meet his friends at his place. I had a fantastic time when I first went to his place. Shahab loved playing cards and knew many games, one of which he taught me. We played for a couple of hours, and I soon forgot my worries and I didn’t notice the passage of time. Then we played a game of chess and he defeated me easily despite my desperate efforts to win. I really liked hanging out with him — he was fun and full of life. His ability to think several moves ahead not only allowed him to defeat me in the game, it also reflected his attitude towards the future, his impressive intellect and his strategic thinking. Our next leisure activity didn’t turn out so well. One afternoon, we went to a swimming pool. I had been a relatively good swimmer before my national service, so I jumped in and started doing laps. After a few laps, my heart suddenly started pounding and I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. I climbed out of the pool, but I began to cough, to the point of suffocation. My chest felt as if it was about to explode. I rushed to the bathroom and threw up. After my heartbeat finally returned to normal, I went straight to see a doctor. The consequences of smoking and lack of exercise were catching up with me. ‘Today your body spoke loudly — you should listen to it,’ said the doctor, with a sombre look. I was so alarmed that I made a decision to quit smoking right there. The decision may have been instant but the process of breaking free from the addiction was long and excruciating. It was particularly difficult in Tehran, where the smell of tobacco was so pervasive. I was tempted to surrender every hour of every day, but mysteriously I managed to stick to my decision. During the first few months, when I was near smokers, the enticing aroma of tobacco seemed to have a direct link to my nervous system, but in time I felt more stable and less tempted.

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Shahab used to run three or four times a week and when he asked me to join him I accepted his offer without hesitation. At first, I had to make him slow down because I couldn’t keep up with him, but I slowly built up my stamina and regained my physical fitness. At my suggestion, we also arranged to go mountain climbing on the weekends. Getting up at 4 a.m. and climbing in the freezing winter mornings needed tremendous drive and passion. After hours of clambering up slopes and cliffs, it was an exhilarating feeling to reach the summit, beyond the clouds hovering above Tehran. It was like conquering the world, and the scenery up there was sublime. Shahab’s lifestyle and his enthusiasm were infectious. I felt I was getting back on track and my life seemed more colourful and enjoyable. I felt very lucky to have him as my friend. Unlike Shahab, who wasn’t very much into philosophical discussions, I liked discussing our beliefs and views on life. ‘I live in a Muslim family but I don’t see myself as a Muslim any longer,’ I confessed when we were playing chess one evening. ‘It’s not hard to tell; you’ve been hanging out with a Bahá’í!’ he chuckled. ‘How do you view Bahá’í faith? I asked curiously. Hasn’t it kind of evolved from Islam with a new outlook?’ ‘From my childhood, my parents made me participate in the rituals and prayers. A couple of years ago when I started to evaluate my beliefs more independently, my doubts began to grow.’ He paused, looking thoughtful. ‘Like you, I am not sure now about any form of religion.’ ‘In other words, you’ll end up in hell too!’ I chuckled. ‘What matters to me is the reality I perceive. I don’t know everything, but there are things I’m certain about. I am certain that I exist, and I’m in control of my life,’ he said, sounding confident.

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‘How can you say that you’re in control when the government can deprive you of your right to get into university?’ I asked. ‘I’ve chosen to sit for Konkoor and be among the top three. So I’m in control of what I want to do,’ he said. ‘What if they reject you even if you achieve first place? Can you still claim you’re in control?’ I asked. ‘Yes. Then I’ll consider other options to continue my education,’ he responded. ‘Have you considered renouncing your religion publicly, if that becomes the only option to get into university?’ I asked. ‘I don’t think so. That’s a matter of principle for me. No, I won’t do that. There are things more important than continuing my education in this country.’ He paused, gazing at the chess mat. ‘If the worst comes to the worst, I’ll join my brother in Germany. I’ll seek asylum like him. But that’s the easy way out. For now I’m focused on Konkoor, and being among the top three.’ What he said blew me away. Despite knowing that there were hundreds of thousands of applicants competing in Konkoor, I began to believe he could do it — his determination was extraordinary. After leaving his house, I knew what I should to do. He had inspired me and now I was going to run my own race; I wanted to get into university and study Engineering. However, I didn’t know what I was getting myself into and what it would take to achieve that. Shahab was thrilled to hear about my decision and right away sat down with me and listed the subjects I should start studying. I kept my decision from my family for a while. Looking back, perhaps it was a way of proving to myself that I wasn’t dependent on them any longer. But in fact I still needed their support to prepare myself for Konkoor. Besides, they would

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be delighted to know about my intention of applying for university. How foolishly I perceived their role in my life — it is the support of family that makes life worth living and shields us from its harsh realities. I still had six months to study for Konkoor. The questions generally demanded a deep and comprehensive understanding of the material studied through high school. It didn’t take me long to discover that my workload was enormous. I had to start every relevant subject in high school from scratch and build upon that. In particular, there was loads of work involved in mastering Maths and Physics. When I told Shahab my worries he was sanguine. ‘Don’t stress about it. You still have plenty of time till Konkoor. You just need to plan well and make optimum use of your time.’ ‘It’s really stupid that we have to go through this torturous process for getting into university,’ I protested. ‘Not at all,’ Shahab said. ‘Take swimming, for instance; without a race or competition, you would cruise along, but you would never put your abilities to the test, or know just how good you could be.’ ‘Gaining admission to university shouldn’t be a race; with so much wealth in this country, there should be ample opportunity for people like you and me.’ I paused, feeling increasingly irritated. ‘It is a tragedy that the intake is only about twenty per cent of all the applicants.’ Shahab was right, my workload was immense and I needed to plan ahead. I had seen Shahab putting up wall charts, so taking a leaf from his book, I used a wall chart to plan for the coming weeks and months. I put on my chart all relevant subjects to be studied and the deadlines. It looked really daunting. Like me, Shahab was an early riser and this allowed us to have a regular morning exercise session. Every other morning

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at 6 a.m. we left home for a run in the nearby park, then finished with some stretching exercises round 7. The difference it made to my energy levels and my mood was remarkable, and I sensed I was better able to focus when solving problems in Maths and Physics. Not surprisingly, Shahab and I became study buddies and went to the local public library regularly. He was a great help to me but I wasn’t sure how much he benefitted from my company, especially during the first couple of months when I was reinforcing basic concepts. With such a huge study load and very limited time, I decided to quit my job. My parents were supportive when they heard about my decision — they never nagged me over my studies or asked me how I was doing, and my siblings treated me similarly. ‘How’re you going?’ I asked Shahab one day during our morning exercise. ‘All good! Heaps of pressure now but in less than a month, it’ll be over,’ he said in his usual optimistic tones. ‘We should now start getting some practice in mock exam conditions to be ready for the big day.’ He explained that this was also the best way to overcome nerves during the exams. I did terribly in the first few trial exams and almost lost hope. My accuracy was fair but my speed was horrendously slow; I couldn’t get through more than half the questions in Maths and Physics. Unlike me, Shahab was amazingly fast. Although practice didn’t make perfect in my case, it gradually enabled me to improve my speed. After months of studying, I also had a deeper grasp of the important concepts in the main subjects, and I began to feel more confident. While the marathon ahead of me was far from complete, I had reached the first checkpoint and found my stride. On the last day before Konkoor, on our way back from morning exercise, I sensed Shahab was apprehensive. ‘I keep

5. SHAHAB

repeating one of Rolland’s quotes in my head, to help keep me centred and content with my efforts,’ I said. ‘What is the quote?’ he asked, sounding irritated. ‘A champion is one who does what he can,’ I said, looking directly into his eyes. Sometimes, an honest and sincere look can be more powerful than words. ‘That’s not enough for me. You know my aim — I have to be among the top three,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to be; you want to be. There’s a lot of joy and optimism in wanting to do something, but having to do something puts unnecessary pressure on us and generates anxiety,’ I said, suddenly realising I was saying pretty damn good stuff! I patted him on the shoulder and gave him a warm look so he’d know I felt for him. We stayed silent for the rest of our walk back home. Our plan was to stop studying at 4 p.m. and then go out for a bit of fun. We knew that having a good break would help us in the exam far more than revising for a couple more hours the night before Konkoor. A little after 4 p.m., I knocked on his door. ‘He’s dashed out to buy milk. He should be back in a few minutes,’ his mum explained. ‘Come in.’ I decided to wait outside and busied myself by flicking through a sports magazine I had found on the pavement. I looked at my watch; it was 4:30. The walk to the nearby shop was less than ten minutes and I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t back yet. As the minutes passed, I became increasingly irritated. ‘Where the hell is he?’ It was really getting too late now. I could have spent that extra hour revising instead of wasting it outside his home. At the same time my mind was busy worrying about the Konkoor exam. I hadn’t confessed it to anyone but I was agitated and afraid. I wanted to achieve a great result and get into a good university. I wanted to build a fruitful profession in Engineering as well as a prosperous

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future for myself, so I desperately needed to succeed in the exams. A young boy of about ten snapped me back to reality. ‘Is this Shahab’s home?’ he asked, panting and looking panicked. ‘Yes, what’s up?’ I was all ears. ‘It’s just that Shahab was hit by a car. He was crossing the road. They’ve taken him to the local hospital.’ His black eyes were wide, his eyebrows arched, in fact his expression was so like a cartoon that I would have found it comical in other circumstances. ‘Is he badly hurt?’ I was shocked and impatient to know the details. ‘I’m not sure. I think his right leg’s broken.’ I immediately delivered the news to Shahab’s mother and within minutes we were in a cab driving to the hospital. The emergency ward was packed; I was surprised to see so many portable stretchers parked in the corridors, which indicated there were insufficient beds for the flood of sick and injured. Doctors and nurses were bustling around attending to patients, and luckily we located Shahab without much delay. He was lying on a stretcher waiting to be examined by a doctor; apparently, a broken leg wasn’t urgent and could wait until all the life-threatening cases had been treated. ‘The paramedics suspect that the bone’s fractured,’ he said, trying vainly to hide his pain. The driver of the car involved in the accident was a man in his late forties. He tried to explain to us calmly that he wasn’t responsible for the accident and that Shahab was to blame for crossing the street unsafely. I led the worried driver away from Shahab and asked him to come back in two hours. An X-ray confirmed the bone was fractured. ‘His leg needs to be in plaster for two months, with four weeks of complete

5. SHAHAB

rest, which means no movement,’ said the doctor, looking at the X-ray negative against the ceiling light. ‘What about Konkoor tomorrow?’ I cut in impatiently. ‘He will need a comfortable position during the exam. I will also give him a script for some strong painkillers.’ The doctor turned to Shahab. ‘Good luck!’ ‘That’s exactly what I needed,’ said Shahab sarcastically once the doctor left. He looked pained as he reached for a glass of water on the bedside table. There were no tears in his eyes but I could sense he was crying inside. ‘I can’t wait to write on your plaster!’ I tried to make light of the situation. ‘I think you should get everyone to write on it or sign it, including the pretty nurse who’s minding you.’ He smiled but didn’t respond to my humour, nor did he make any effort to hide his disappointment and sadness. It was upsetting to see how things had suddenly changed for him. How vulnerable we all are! I thought. He had been studying so hard for so long and suddenly a freak accident had dashed his hopes just before perhaps the biggest challenge of his life. He had every right to be sad and frustrated. We got back to his house at about 9 p.m., and by then his usual positive attitude was returning, although he was yawning — clearly the painkillers were working. It was time for me to go back to my own home. ‘Tomorrow will be the day, your day to kick arse. With the plaster you’re in, it’ll hurt them even more!’ I said, shaking his hand. ‘Tomorrow is your big day.’ As I was walking home, the events of the day replayed in my head. Instead of going out with him to have fun and recharge my battery, I had been through an upsetting experience. It had been too much — I suddenly felt exhausted and drained. When I got home, I heated up some leftover food, sat with my parents and ate it. They were watching an Iranian comedy, which constantly made them chuckle. I tried to tune in but the tumult

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in my head prevented me from enjoying the show. My parents were quite unaware of what had happened to Shahab, neither did they understand my worries the night before the Konkoor exam, yet it felt good to sit in their company and have my dinner. The following morning I paid Shahab a visit on the way to the Konkoor exam hall. He looked refreshed and positive and greeted me in his usual cheerful manner when I walked in. We wished each other good luck and I left. He had to go to another exam hall located at the other end of the city and his mother had already arranged for transport. I had made up my mind about the exam; I was going to focus on my own race without paying attention to anyone else. Despite my decision, when I entered the exam hall, I felt something shift, and suddenly I felt nervous. Though I was clear in my head about my attitude and approach towards the exam, my nervous system was in complete rebellion; my stomach was churning and I was short of breath. What the heck is going on? Calm down! I told myself. Only do your best, the results will take care of themselves. I kept repeating Rolland’s quote: ‘A champion is one who does what he can.’ My thoughts were interrupted by the announcement: ‘You may begin.’ This was it. I opened the exam booklet and read the first question. It was a familiar concept but I couldn’t solve the problem. The same happened when I tried to solve the second and third problems. I panicked. I felt I was in a haze and couldn’t think clearly. I could virtually feel the neurons misfiring in my brain, full of misdirected activity and confused chemical instructions. I put my pen down, closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. This helped me relax a bit, then I opened my eyes and started reading the first question again, and this time I could understand the problem and solved it without any dramas. Overall, I was relatively pleased with the test that morning.

5. SHAHAB

During the break, I thought of Shahab and hoped he would fulfil his ambitious goal. He definitely deserved it. I was more relaxed during the afternoon tests but I could feel my brain tiring during the last part, as if it was shrouded in fog. At the end of the first day’s exams, I felt more confident about getting through the second day. Abruptly, the order ‘Pens down!’ came over the speakers. The first part of Konkoor was over. On my way back home, I dropped in at Shahab’s place. He seemed very pleased with the events of the day. ‘Are we going to see your photo on the front page of the national papers now?’ I asked with a grin. ‘Honestly, I don’t know, but I gave it my best shot.’ He gazed at the plaster on his leg. ‘And the painkillers did their job well.’ I didn’t sense the usual energy in his voice, but given what he’d been through over the previous twenty-four hours, his mood and reaction seemed quite reasonable. After completing all our exams, we now had to await the results, which would be released within a month. I spent most of my time with Shahab during the first few days after Konkoor, but very soon I realised that I had to get back to work. I needed money, and besides, I didn’t like sitting idly at home. Of course my parents were still providing everything for me, but I couldn’t ask them to pay for my expenses; I wished to be independent. Luckily, I managed to get back my job in the mechanics workshop. Weeks passed rather speedily and the day of the Konkoor results arrived. I had to go to one of the Department of Education branches to pick up my results. There was a long queue in front of the building. At last I was given an envelope with my name printed on it. I held my breath as I opened it anxiously … and there it was — my rank was 650. Yes! I did it. It was a terrific outcome and would allow me to study Engineering in one of the prominent Tehran universities. My heart was singing, my

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eyes welling up. For the first time in my life I felt a profound sense of pride and satisfaction in my achievement. I couldn’t wait to find out what Shahab had got. Damn! I forgot to check out the papers today, I thought to myself and rushed to the nearest newsagent. I glanced at the front page, looking for his photo, but there was nothing. On my way back home, I stopped by at his place. ‘Hey, did you forget to give them your photo for the front page?’ I asked, smiling. ‘Yes, I did, but they wouldn’t need my photo anyway. My rank is 16; not good enough for the front page,’ he replied, smiling back at me. ‘Wow! That’s a fantastic result. You must be thrilled!’ I said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘It’s not exactly what I wanted, but yes, I’m pleased with the outcome. I think the result is fair and I don’t believe the car accident had any impact on my performance,’ he said, sounding calm and positive. He knew too well that he was still going to be stuck in limbo for some time due to his refusal to renounce his religion. I was also in the same boat because of my previous political activities, but somehow I still felt there was a glimmer of hope. We just had to wait patiently for the university admissions to be announced in the newspapers the following week. My prediction turned out to be right: we had both been disqualified and neither of us was granted admission. Despite predicting the outcome, I was still heartbroken. So was Shahab. On the next day, I received an ominously mundane-looking letter from Herasat, the intelligence service in the Department of Education. The letter stated that I wasn’t ideologically qualified to enter the university. Except for advising me of their decision, there was no mention in the letter of how I could appeal or get them to

5. SHAHAB

reconsider my application. Shahab’s letter was clearer; he was advised to publicly renounce his faith and convert to Islam if he ever wanted a chance of entering university. At least he knew what was expected of him. I had mixed feelings about being disqualified. On the one hand, I was disappointed that my efforts hadn’t paid off and I hadn’t get what I wanted. On the other hand, I had a quiet sense of pride for being rejected by a cruel regime with medieval beliefs. ‘What are you going to do now?’ I asked Shahab. ‘I knew the prospects were not bright for me here anyway, which is why I just wanted to do my best to be among the top three, which unfortunately didn’t materialise.’ He paused, looking pensive. ‘Now I’ve got to consider other options.’ ‘Like?’ I was curious. ‘Leaving this country and joining my brother in Germany. Because of their persecution in Iran, the Bahá’ís can easily seek asylum in European countries,’ he replied. ‘I just don’t know how to leave my mother alone here; she won’t last for too long without me.’ ‘Won’t you be able to take her to Germany after you’ve settled in?’ I asked, puzzled. ‘She doesn’t want to abandon her home and her relatives. Besides, learning a new language would be too hard for her.’ ‘But I’m sure your education and future are very important to her. Besides, you’ve got to live your life; the only life you have.’ I wasn’t a parent then and perhaps didn’t clearly understand how madly parents love their kids. I was of the opinion that I didn’t choose to be my parents’ son and therefore wasn’t ready to plan my future based on what they had in mind for me; despite their unwavering support and good wishes I wanted to choose how to live my life. ‘You should do what makes you happy. Let me be frank with you, you won’t have much success in Iran.’

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‘Are you up for a climb this weekend?’ he asked, obviously wanting to change the subject. I guessed that he was uncertain and needed more time to ponder his plans. I gave him a lecture on plans and the future, but frankly I didn’t have any plans either, Then again, neither did my parents or anyone else; in fact I didn’t know what to do with my life. Though my job at the mechanics had kept me occupied, it wasn’t suitable for me anymore. It wasn’t challenging enough and I was increasingly finding it monotonous. ‘I’m not made for this job I’ve got,’ I confided in Shahab. ‘It’s too repetitive and tedious.’ ‘Why don’t you try tutoring Maths or Physics? I can introduce you to some people looking for a tutor,’ he offered. It didn’t take long until, through Shahab, I started my first tutoring job, teaching Year 10 Maths. It was awesome. Solving problems always gave me a buzz. Because I enjoyed teaching, I began to take it more seriously, preparing myself before each session. A month of tutoring gave me the courage to change my full-time position at the mechanics to part time. In addition to Maths, I started teaching Physics. Gradually, through word of mouth, I got three more students, which allowed me to resign from the workshop altogether, and tutoring became a full-time job for me. I liked my new job, and my income was excellent — almost three times more than what I was getting from the mechanics. Besides, I enjoyed being intellectually challenged by my students’ questions. Two months later, Shahab informed me of his decision to seek asylum in Germany. His plan was to travel to Turkey and then pay the people smugglers to get him into Germany. ‘I’m really glad you’ve made the right choice,’ I said. ‘I know it hasn’t been easy for you.’ ‘No it hasn’t been an easy decision.’ He shook his head. ‘Though my mum doesn’t like being away from me, she insists

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I go and join my brother.’ Within weeks, Shahab left Iran and after a short stay in Turkey, he ended up in a refugee camp in Germany. By hiring a lawyer, his brother expedited the process and eventually the two brothers were reunited. Strangely, from then on, I lost contact with Shahab and I only heard about him from his mother. Perhaps that was part and parcel of migration, where physical distance destroys the closeness that we once cherished.

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6 . TU RKE Y

My life seemed to be stuck in limbo; I couldn’t move forward and I couldn’t go back, all I could do was wait, like a patient anxiously but reluctantly awaiting results from the doctor. Only the intelligence agency Herasat had the authority to decide if I could continue my education or not. Although the chances were extremely slim, I used the advice of a lawyer to frame a compelling appeal and lodged it with Herasat. I couldn’t just wait and do nothing. And so the ant challenged the boot, which was descending from the sky. Despite the limbo I was in, my tutoring job was thriving and took up almost all my attention and energy. For each session of tutoring, I needed to prepare myself to ensure I could teach my students effectively and surprise them with new questions and new ways of solving problems in Maths and Physics. They all seemed to be improving. I was also beginning to enjoy my social life and my circle of friends was expanding. Almost every Friday morning I went

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mountain climbing with friends who loved the thrill and refreshing atmosphere of the mountains, which towered above Tehran. There were a few girls who also showed up occasionally but each one of them seemed to be in a relationship. So the only place where I had a chance to meet someone was lacking in suitable girls. I was hopeless at connecting with any girl and had developed an unshakeable belief that I was inherently unattractive. Perhaps this attitude was the biggest obstacle to finding a girlfriend. My best friends, however, were my books, and these I relished. For the first time I started exploring Persian poetry and got to know some of the most talented poets in history. Some of the poems by contemporary poets such as Ahmad Shamloo were exhilarating and I felt as if they had ignited a fire in me. Some verses could fill me with awe, amazement, sadness or deep bliss. The sounds and rhythms of a powerful poem would electrify my whole being. In poetry, I truly began to appreciate the preciousness of words, wielded with such skill by the poets. I had always wondered why there was a verse of poetry on every single headstone in cemeteries in Iran. I could now see that only poetry had the ability, in so few words, to describe why or how the person beneath the headstone had lived and what they had valued. Months passed and there was still no reply from Herasat. The unresolved tension settled, almost unnoticed, into a weight on my shoulders. One night at my sister Tajee’s place, she sat me down for a good talk. She sounded concerned about how things were in my life. ‘Tutoring is certainly a good source of income at this stage, but you can’t rely on that forever. You’re still young and this is the best time to study for a profession.’ ‘I’ve sent a few letters to the Department of Education but I’ve heard nothing yet.’ I felt frustration rising up in me. ‘I don’t know what else I can do!’

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‘Perhaps it’s time to consider other options like going to another country,’ she said. This took me by surprise. I had never imagined hearing that from my sister. ‘Are you serious? Should I really go to another country when I’ve already earned a place at university here?’ ‘Maybe you should.’ She smiled, then our conversation was interrupted by my nephews fighting over their favourite TV shows, which were on different channels. After I left their house that night, I was still trying to make sense of the new challenges I might have to face. Tajee had certainly planted a big doubt in my head about my chances in Iran. The foundation of my tutoring job was a little white lie, which I managed to tell without speaking. All my students presumed that I was a university student studying Engineering — it was an unwritten law that a tutor had to be at least a university student. Because my tutoring skills and knowledge were satisfactory, parents and students never doubted my status. I usually dodged any questions about my course or university, but the emotional burden of the lie was gradually becoming heavier. Besides, how much longer could I carry on with a lie about my university student status? I had recently just survived a near miss. ‘Where are you studying?’ the mother of one of my students asked. She caught me off guard, looking directly into my eyes as she waited for an answer. ‘I’m studying … Civil Engineering at Tehran University,’ I spluttered. ‘Really? My oldest son is studying Mechanical Engineering there. He’s not home right now but I’m sure you two must have seen each other,’ she said excitedly. Her probing made me cancel lessons with her younger son,

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making various excuses until eventually I stopped tutoring him to prevent any potential embarrassment. In the beginning I had allowed myself to lie about my status, firstly because I had achieved a good mark in Konkoor, and secondly because had it not been for the regime, I would have been studying at university. But it had slowly become a sore point and I knew I couldn’t live with it for too much longer. After my sister had suggested the idea of travelling to another country, I subconsciously began to mull it over and consider it as a potential means of escape from the dead end I was stuck in. It was certainly no bright beacon of hope, but perhaps it was a candle flame flickering in the darkness of my frustration and occasional bouts of despair. ‘I’ve thought a lot about leaving Iran lately,’ I told Tajee when I next saw her. ‘I just don’t know where to start, what to do or what to expect.’ ‘The UN office in Ankara, Turkey’s capital, is processing refugees for Canada and some other Western countries. I’ve already made some enquiries and it looks like you have a good chance to seek asylum in Canada. You just have to prove to them that your life has been put on hold here in Iran because of your political views and previous activities.’ She sounded confident. ‘And with the proofs you have in hand, it should be easy.’ My knowledge about trips abroad was next to nothing except for the stories I had heard from others. Nevertheless, I knew that one important ingredient for such a trip was money. ‘Luckily, I have some savings, but I guess it may not be enough.’ ‘Don’t worry too much about money at this stage. First, you’ve got to make up your mind. We’ll sort it out if you need more.’ Her warm look reassured me. I was lucky to have her unwavering support, which made

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it easier to contemplate such a drastic move. Besides, it had always been one of my dreams to travel abroad and see foreign countries, and the prospect of ending up in a land like Canada seemed exciting. What else can I do here? I didn’t have an answer for this gloomy question. So eventually I decided to embark on that journey. It was February 1987. I deliberately bought a one way plane ticket to Istanbul, with no intention of coming back. I had so much to do before my trip. I told my students that I was going on holiday to Turkey because I didn’t want to lose my source of income in case unforeseen circumstances forced me to return. I had worked so hard to build my tutoring business. I had all my documents formally translated to English — I was going to need them for the UN office and then later for enrolling in university when I entered another country. Although the trip involved so many uncertainties, there was one that worried me most: was I permitted to leave the country? It was possible that my name would be on a black list due to my previous political involvement. This was something nobody could be sure of until they attempted to go through the security checkpoint at the airport. That uncertainty also intensified my stress. The day of my departure arrived and I got ready for the trip despite my fear and uncertainty; would the regime prevent me from pursuing a better life even outside Iran? My suitcase was full of clothing to survive the cold winter in Turkey. Once again, I had to farewell my family, leaving them for an unknown destiny. With teary eyes, they took turns embracing me. This reminded me of when I went off to the war zone during my national service. I didn’t like parting from my loved ones — it wasn’t easy. I said goodbye and went through the gate. Everyone had decided to wait there for a while to be sure I’d been allowed to leave.

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As I walked towards the security checkpoint, my heart began to beat double time and I was breathing heavily. I was now quite apprehensive as I waited in the queue. I could see the clock on the wall and sense its second hand moving, tick … tick … tick. It was now my turn. The officer checked my passport, flicking through every single page, and then checked the long list on his desk. He kept glancing at me. For the first time I had a better understanding of Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. Seconds felt like hours and I was in a capsule detached from reality. The officer picked up the phone and started speaking with someone about my passport. My hopes suddenly left me and I knew I was about to be rejected. ‘There is a minor error in your passport here. I’ve made a note in the system for when you return, so you won’t face any issue with this,’ he said, stamping my passport. When he handed my passport back to me, I was numb and my senses were confused. I didn’t utter a word, just nodded. I couldn’t believe it. As I was walking towards the gate for boarding, I felt my immense anxiety grudgingly relinquish its hold and a feeling of peace and calm begin to wash over me. It took me some time to compose myself and allow the excitement of seeing a new country to energise me once again. I had never been out of Iran and knew very little about other countries except for what I had learnt through watching movies or reading books. This was going to be my first experience stepping into a new world, and I was doing it alone. Fortunately I knew some English so I was fairly confident I could get by. It was almost midday when our plane approached Istanbul and I could see the famous city through the plane’s window. Contrary to my own home town, which was far from the sea, Istanbul was on the coast and looked absolutely stunning. I could see the waterway that separated the two continents of Asia and Europe, and which at the same time divided Istanbul

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into its European and Asian parts. My modest knowledge of geography also helped me identify the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara, which flowed into the Mediterranean Sea. This aerial view added to my enthusiasm for visiting Istanbul, the capital city of four empires in history — the Roman, Byzantine, Latin and Ottoman empires. When I walked into the airport, I was shocked and thrilled to see women without headscarves. After the Islamic revolution in Iran, women’s civil rights had been increasingly restricted, due to the regime’s interpretation of Islamic laws. One obvious restriction was to force women to wear a headscarf and baggy outfits in public. It was wonderful to see women in Turkey freely wearing what they liked. At the airport, I used a public phone to contact the brother of one of my friends who was living in Istanbul. His name was Kamal and he’d been living in Istanbul for a few years. Unfortunately, he didn’t answer the phone. I had heard the name of a popular suburb called Aksaray from passengers on the plane, so I decided to catch a cab to Aksaray and asked the driver to take me to an inexpensive motel. I got a room in a rather big motel, which looked clean and orderly. Travel today, with map technology, translation apps, and booking sites, is devoid of many of the concerns that plagued me then. I truly felt like a stranger in a strange land, and a very insecure stranger. Once again I attempted to contact Kamal unsuccessfully. I decided to go down and check out the lobby, where I noticed two Iranian men drinking Raki, the hard alcoholic Turkish drink. Those two guys seemed to be making up for years of deprivation under the strict rules in Iran, which banned alcoholic drinks altogether, by drinking freely and deeply while away from home. Unlike them, I had no attachment to alcohol whatsoever and I didn’t think it sensible to drink and

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smoke feverishly at that time of the day, so I chose to go out and explore. My motel was situated in a busy central part of Aksaray. The first thing I noticed was the exhilarating Turkish music that I could hear from almost every shop in the street. This cheered me up and after a few minutes I felt that my body was automatically tuning in with the music, the beat — my body was kind of dancing. I fell in love with Turkish music right away, and to this day, I haven’t known any music from other parts of the world to surpass it. Like Persians, the Turks seemed to be very inventive with food and I could see a huge variety of dishes as I walked past the local food stores. I wasn’t a fussy eater and as long as I could find something compatible with my stomach, I was happy. I also noticed the teahouses, which again reminded me of Iran. The only difference I noticed was that they served coffee, the well-known Turkish coffee. Its tantalising aroma would instantly make all my body cells crave it. Except for the language, music, and the women’s outfits, everything else was relatively familiar. Turks even resembled Iranian people — dark hair and eyes, men with moustaches, and smoking! It seemed to me that all the men were smoking ceaselessly. Perhaps this had something to do with the numerous billboards around town with glamorous advertisements for Marlboro, Camel, and other brands of tobacco. The tobacco industry seemed to be flourishing in Turkey. The traffic on the roads was also comparable to busy roads in Tehran, but the traffic lights appeared to be obeyed more diligently in Istanbul and the pedestrian crossings respected. After the revolution in Iran, codes of behaviour and shared communal responsibilities had been grossly neglected by the authorities. This was of course consistent with the regime’s

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backward ideology, which manifested itself in numerous aspects of daily life in Iran. That night I tried to contact Kamal once more. This time, a woman picked up the phone then passed it to Kamal. He gave me the details of a motel near Taksim Square and his own home and asked me to get a room there, so the following day I did as he asked, wanting to take advantage of his support and advice in the unfamiliar territory in which I found myself. The first thing I noticed in my new neighbourhood was the intense smell of burning coal. It was winter and obviously coal was the fuel used for heating. I didn’t like it and was unsure of the associated health risks. In the evening, Kamal dropped in as planned, to meet me. He seemed a few years older than me, the same height but rather stocky, with fair skin and light brown hair. He was friendly and warm, but unlike his family, he talked in a very casual and rather uncultured manner. We had a brief chat and planned to meet again. After Kamal left, I met a middle-aged German woman in the lobby who looked friendly. Although my English skills were limited, I tried to explain the situation in Iran. My command of English grammar was good enough and I had vocabulary of essential words, which gave me the courage to engage in a conversation with her. Later on, I heard from Kamal that her aim was to marry a man who desperately wanted a permanent visa in Germany. She was also a medium for a few more German women who were benefitting from this form of business. So for her, staying in Istanbul was both a holiday and a source of income. The following day when Kamal entered the motel, there were a couple of young Iranian guys with him. I found out later that they had fled Iran through the border in order to avoid national service in the war with Iraq. They had been living in

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Turkey illegally and without any documents. They were waiting for Kamal to arrange for their passage to a Western European country. It came as a shock to me when I found out they were involved in stealing passports and picking pockets at popular tourist attractions, working for Kamal. I couldn’t believe that Kamal was a people smuggler. It was now time to do what I had come to Turkey for: to lodge my application at the UN office in Ankara to seek asylum. During my trip on the train, I had six hours to think about my future, my purpose in life and the things I wanted to do. I didn’t know exactly what it meant to be a refugee and I wasn’t convinced that I was one. Back in Iran, there were over a million refugees from Afghanistan who were working and making a living in terrible conditions. Comparing myself with the Afghan refugees, I found it hard to make sense of my situation. What kind of a refugee was I? The more I thought about it, the more bewildered I became. There were hundreds of people in the queue in front of the UN office in Ankara. When walking past, I could hear people speaking Persian and I could tell that the clear majority were from Iran. Are these real refugees? I asked myself. They seemed to me mainly from the middle class in Iran and I wondered how they could possibly be considered as refugees. The real refugees were those who were stuck in the war-torn areas near the border with Iraq. So what were these guys doing here in front of the UN office in Ankara? I tried to stand calmly at the end of that interminable queue. For a moment I felt dizzy and my knees became weak. My beliefs, values, and my attachment to my own country and family all rebelled at what I was doing, and I could not equate this future with the future I had dreamt about so often. I was feeling increasingly agitated and uncertain. You can’t do this! The voice in my head was very strong. You can’t do this! Finally,

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after standing in the line for about an hour arguing with the voice in my head, I surrendered and left the crowd and the queue. I wasn’t desperate enough to be a refugee; that was final. So now that I was determined to abandon the idea of asylum seeking, I decided to apply at some of the European embassies for a student visa. Though the staff at the embassy were polite, they didn’t show the slightest interest in providing me with help or guidance in applying for a student visa. When they asked me about my financial situation, I didn’t have much of a reply. My savings were only a small fraction of one semester of university tuition. What was I thinking? How naive I was to assume that I could simply walk in off the street and apply for a visa. After a few hours of futile requests at four embassies, it finally hit me that my only chance of getting into a European country was to go back to the long queue in front of the UN office. No, thanks! I was increasingly despondent with the way things had unfolded. No matter what I did I appeared to be caught between opposing forces with nothing to help me escape the limbo I was in. Back in Iran, at least I was with my family and lived in my own country, but in Turkey or those Western countries, I had no one to support me and I was a complete stranger. I should return home; no point in wasting my time here. I wasn’t looking forward to working at the mechanics again or resuming my tutoring job, nor could I see a glimmer of hope outside Iran. Baffled and disappointed, I hopped on a train back to Istanbul. I had a few hours on the train to contemplate what to do. I had heard about Iranian students studying in Romania and I decided to find out more about my chances in that country upon my return to Istanbul. Besides, I felt a desire to find out more about life in Istanbul, so when Kamal invited me to dinner at his place, I didn’t hesitate.

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When I entered his flat, a young woman who looked to be in her late twenties greeted me. Her blue dress was in perfect harmony with her black hair and beautiful dark eyes. As I was scanning the lounge, admiring the pictures on the wall and the features of the flat, a young boy of about seven emerged from the bedroom. I was curious to know where the woman and the boy fitted into the picture, as I was rather sure Kamal wasn’t married to her. ‘Oh, this is Shirin. She’s staying here with her son while they wait for her visa to Germany, or the Netherlands …’ I didn’t need a crystal ball to know that she was waiting for him to sort out her documents for a European country. I also noticed there was only one bedroom in the flat with a queen bed, so the sleeping arrangements were clear. During my short stay in Turkey I had seen so many Iranian men and women desperately searching for passage to European countries; many were staying in Turkey illegally and didn’t even have passports, which made Kamal’s role more imperative. While we were waiting for dinner to be served, Kamal said proudly, ‘This is what I do; providing them with the passport and visa they need.’ The word forgery was not mentioned. ‘It’s also a source of income for myself,’ he added, almost as an afterthought. It was evident that he was a smart, sharp guy using his intelligence and skills to make money in a foreign land. What I had difficulty understanding, though, was the contrast between his current business and his background. He had been raised in an educated and well-respected family, whom I knew fairly well, and I could tell they would be devastated if they found out about their son’s affairs, which included stealing passports and other documents in popular tourist spots, as well as forgery. For a moment, I felt an urge to talk him out of the awful business he was involved in, but I bit my tongue

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and stayed mute. How could I have any influence on him? How could I give him advice when I knew next to nothing about his character? How could I dissuade him from taking advantage of a desperate young woman who was naively trying to find a better future for herself and her son? As his brother’s friend, I received generous hospitality from Kamal. At dinner, he offered me a variety of alcoholic drinks but I tactfully refused to join him and his other guests in draining glasses of wine or shots of spirits in quick succession. Shirin was also drinking, and enjoying the mindless conversation they had about the transsexuals in Istanbul and the operations for changing their sexual organs. I noticed her son was peering through the bedroom door, which was slightly ajar, perhaps trying to make sense of what he heard. I was tolerant enough of such conversations, but I found their language too vulgar when a child was listening in. Suddenly I felt overwhelmed and stood up. ‘I’m sorry but I need to get back to my motel; I’m waiting for my dad’s phone call,’ I lied. ‘Thanks for having me.’ I didn’t belong with that group; they viewed the world through a different set of lenses. I didn’t fit in their world. On the way back to the motel I felt terribly homesick; I missed my home and my family. I felt sorry for the young boy in Kamal’s flat, who had to witness his mum among a bunch of men speaking in vulgar tones. My head was pounding and I desperately needed to get back into my own cocoon to heal and restore my sanity. I was sorely tempted to make my lie a reality and call home in search of familiarity and comfort. In the end, I settled for a disrupted and unrefreshing sleep. In addition to me, there were a few Iranian men staying in the motel. The next day, when I entered the kitchen to have my breakfast, I overheard two guys who were planning to go to the red-light district in Istanbul. I had never been to a brothel before

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and was curious to see what they were like. I was, after all, a young man filled with a young man’s curiosity. All brothels in Iran had been closed down after the Islamic revolution and sex workers had to work illegally by finding their clients on the street or through hidden networks. This seemed a rare opportunity, which I didn’t want to miss. ‘If you’re planning to go tonight, I’ll tag along, if that’s OK with you guys?’ I asked cautiously. ‘Cool, no problem. We’ll be leaving around 9 p.m.,’ one of them said. Nothing had prepared me for the scene that awaited me. There were dozens of brothels in the same area. Women with bare breasts were sitting behind windows or at the door inviting in passersby who had come window-shopping. It was surreal. I was flabbergasted and didn’t want to miss a thing. Almost all of them looked young and attractive. I had never seen a naked woman in my whole life and now I could gaze freely at them. To be honest, after the first few minutes, it was more than just satisfying my curiosity; it was pleasure, and I felt sexual desire awakening in my inexperienced body. ‘If you want to have some fun, we can wait outside,’ one of the guys suggested. ‘We spent a fair bit of money last night, so we can’t afford any more tonight.’ ‘No, I’m fine. I wouldn’t have the courage even if I wanted to,’ I smiled. I was sure that my blush had given me away. Gazing at bare breasts was enough. My enjoyment, however, was suddenly dampened when I saw a couple of young girls behind one of the windows. They might have been over eighteen but they definitely didn’t look like it. That was one of the ugly aspects of those brothels, where sexual exploitation of women had no boundaries. After a couple of hours of browsing in the crowded red-light district, we decided to go back to our motel. It was a night I found impossible to forget.

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Such frivolous activities could only hold my attention for so long. I had been unable to realise my hopes of migration and an education abroad, and now I had to make a decision. I wasn’t ready to return home defeated, but I desperately needed a new direction in order to escape the shadows of my past. The next day, I made some enquiries about tours to eastern European countries that didn’t have such strict visa regulations. Without hesitation, I paid for a one-week tour to Bucharest.

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I had left Iran in search of education. While I didn’t know it at the time, boarding that rickety old bus to Bucharest was the first step towards an education of a different kind, not an academic education perhaps, but no less important. In one week I learned more about myself, the outside world, politics, relationships and women than I had in all my schoolingback home. One reason this trip was intriguing was my fascination with socialism and communism. After my political activities had ceased, I gradually deserted the ideology that had been the foundation of my views and actions, but it was still alive in my subconscious. So I was genuinely excited to visit a country where communist principles were in full force. I was astonished to find that most of the passengers on the bus were Iranian — a few couples and several single men, one of whom dropped into the seat beside me. He was in his early twenties.

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‘Is this the first time you’ve been to Romania?’ I asked, trying to break the ice. ‘Yes, it is, but I’ve been to Sofia, Bulgaria’s capital, about three months ago,’ he replied with ease, running his hand through his rather long black hair. ‘You must be living in Turkey then,’ I said, fishing for more information. ‘Temporarily, until my application at the UN office is processed,’ he replied. ‘I guess most people on this bus are in the same situation. After staying ninety days in Turkey, we have to cross the border into another country, stay outside Turkey for at least a day or two, then re-enter on a new ninetyday tourist visa.’ How much money do these guys have, if they’re able to stay in Turkey as well as travel to neighbouring countries every three months? I wondered, knowing the high cost of living in Turkey. They must have had the support of wealthy families back in Iran. ‘Have you and your family been affected by the war?’ I asked. ‘Of course! I couldn’t do anything without completing my national service in Iran, and I didn’t want to jeopardise my life in the stupid war. That’s why I fled the country. I’m now waiting for the UN to process my application,’ he replied. Regardless of his financial status, he had a right not to join the army and choose how to live his life. Perhaps, in accordance with international standards, these people were considered to be refugees. What bothered me, though, was to know that those who didn’t have the funds to leave Iran for Turkey were doomed to complete their national service and risk being killed in the war zone. Though the line between right and wrong was blurred, this was definitely not justice. Our bus stopped at the border for identity and security

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checks. I had been told to carry a few boxes of popular cigarettes for the customs officers, or they would pick on me for petty excuses. So, like the others, I generously offered packets of cigarettes to a couple of them in order to ensure a smooth passage. During the trip, I found the opportunity to talk with a couple who were on our bus and wanted to renew their visas in Turkey. I was surprised to hear the guy, Essi, speak openly in his wife’s absence about his plans for Bucharest. ‘I’ve bought these fake chains for my own fun in Bucharest. I’ve been there before and know how much the maids love these,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘I didn’t know about that,’ I said, trying to look cool. I was, in fact, shocked to hear this from a married man travelling with his wife. ‘Don’t worry, they like cigarettes just as much as jewellery, so if you haven’t got enough boxes, buy some more in a duty free shop.’ He winked at me. ‘Buy Kent. That’s the best.’ Though still a virgin, I didn’t feel even a fraction of his appetite for sex. Was I frigid? Was there something wrong with most of the men I had encountered on my trip? Why were they so obsessed with sex? How could a married man travel alongside his wife with a plan to score with as many women as he could during his stay in Bucharest? What could be behind this bizarre behaviour? Did it have any relevance to the strict Islamic rules embedded in our culture? Was it due to the closed and suffocating atmosphere in Iran? My views on many things in life, including sex and love, had been formed by reading the work of Romain Rolland. Those principles were like my religion. According to them, sex could happen when two people really loved each other. Looking back, I was a lucky guy because I lived with a set of principles, an inner compass to show me the way. I didn’t need

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my parents or my wife to watch over me, making sure I didn’t cross the line. It was about midday when our bus approached Bucharest. The hills and mountains were covered in snow but the buildings and road were clear. Before long we were queuing at the reception counter for the keys to our rooms. It was a classy hotel with an immaculate interior. I wasn’t in my room for more than ten minutes when I heard a knock on the door. ‘Cigar?’ asked a young maid with a grin on her face. I had no experience of such encounters but from what I’d heard I could imagine what to expect. ‘Sorry, no cigar,’ I replied politely and closed the door. I wasn’t willing to allow anyone into my room yet. It was late in the afternoon and I decided to go out and explore the neighbourhood. Our hotel was located in the city centre and was surrounded by old but majestic classical-style buildings. It was freezing cold, maybe minus 5 degrees, and I wasn’t used to such a climate. The roads were busy and the pavement was dotted with people dressed in thick coats and Russian fur hats. I didn’t sense the same liveliness I had felt in Istanbul — I wasn’t getting the same vibes. It wasn’t as crowded as Istanbul or Tehran at that time of the day, either. I happened to meet a young Iranian student who was studying medicine at one of the universities in Bucharest. He was friendly, which allowed me to ask him about my chances of studying there. ‘You can stay here provided you pay your tuition, but remember that a student visa won’t allow you to work. Besides, the wages here are so small that you wouldn’t be able to manage your expenses anyway.’ I realised that without a source of income, I wouldn’t be able to stay in Bucharest and pay the university fees. The following day, I hit the road to check out a few

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European embassies, despite my unsuccessful attempts in Turkey. I wanted to keep my dream of studying abroad alive. They all asked, ‘How are your finances?’ by now a familiar question. Once again, I reached the same conclusion: going back home was the only solution. There was no place for me in Europe. I felt rejected and unwanted. It wasn’t easy to concede that the complexities that had crippled my life were beyond my power to unravel. I was at a point where I needed more than determination and diligence. To clear my head, I decided to walk all the way back to the hotel. It was freezing but the streets were full of commuters returning home. The bitter cold and the multitude of unfamiliar faces in the street absorbed all my attention and my self-pity was slowly overshadowed by curiosity. The walkways were crowded and it was obvious that more people used public transport than cars, possibly because few of them could afford to own a vehicle. When I got back to the hotel, there were more people in the lobby, including a few pretty young girls. As I was assessing their beauty and other attributes like a self-appointed judge of the Miss Bucharest contest, I bumped into a middle-aged Iranian guy who had been on the same bus as me from Istanbul. ‘Is this your first time in this city?’ I asked the man, whose name was Farhad. ‘No, it’s my second trip and I’m intending to use my knowledge of the place to have more fun this time.’ He smiled. After a bit of chat I found out he was married with two kids. His family was in Iran and after handling his business in Istanbul he was on a short holiday by himself. When he went to get himself a drink, I joined Essi and his wife, who were also sitting in the lobby. After a few minutes, his wife left us and Essi didn’t hesitate to share with me his first conquest in Bucharest.

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‘One of my little chains found a new owner this afternoon,’ he chuckled. I didn’t know what to say but I managed a smile; the whole thing held no appeal for me. His confession reminded me of the protagonist in Rolland’s book, John Christopher, who found out his girlfriend had had sex with his brother. It reminded me of how Rolland described John’s girlfriend and brother. Similarly, I could see the vast emptiness in Essi’s life, which kept him in thrall to his animalistic instincts. Like C. S. Lewis, I’m of the view that the next leap in human evolution is more likely to be spiritual than biological; it will be about harnessing the instinctive drives that sometimes destroy people’s lives. Perhaps sexual abuse, greed, wars and the insatiable desire for power all arise when a life lacks meaning and a worthwhile purpose. After a couple of hours in the lobby, it became apparent to me that tourism was vital to the Romanian economy. Girls and women, and their pimps, made a business of pleasing male tourists, which became more apparent as night fell and girls turned up in the hotel lobby, like a parade of courting birds in their bright plumage. Tourists usually focus on what makes a country different, seeking something out of the ordinary like the wildlife, virgin rainforests or historic monuments. But for the Iranian guys in the hotel lobby, girls were the object of their attention. Each man was preying on one or two girls who were there, willing to be hunted, or perhaps it was the other way around. I’d seen other men outside the hotel looking in with hungry eyes like a stallion selecting a mare. I noticed Farhad was chatting with one of the girls and I decided to join them. His English was really poor, and the Romanian girl was struggling to express herself too. However, it was amazing to see how easily they could understand each other.

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‘Economy Iran bad!’ said Farhad. ‘Here double bad!’ she replied. After a few minutes, the girl left and Farhad turned to me. ‘What shenanigans have you been up to?’ he asked jokingly. ‘The girls don’t allow you to spend much time with them, do they?’ ‘Not really,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I had some business in the city. How about you, what have you been doing?’ I turned the question back to him. ‘I’ve had a really good time so far. Last night I was with a twenty-year-old girl at her place. It was like paradise. I couldn’t have wished for anything better.’ He sounded genuinely satisfied, but I, naively, found it puzzling that a man in his mid-forties had slept with such a young woman. ‘Where did you find her?’ I asked. ‘In front of the hotel at about 10 p.m. You can easily find one tonight if you wish. The girls in the lobby are more expensive,’ he replied, boastful of his broad knowledge on the subject. I didn’t know what to think or what to say. Luckily, one of his friends joined us and that gave me an excuse to leave. When I was at the bar buying a beer, a girl came and stood next to me, ordering a drink for herself. After discovering that even a dopey person like Farhad had been with a young girl, I suddenly felt the courage to connect with her. ‘Hi, you like a drink?’ I offered, not sure if she knew English. ‘OK, thanks.’ She had a sweet smile and was rather attractive but certainly not one of the very beautiful girls in the lobby. After I introduced myself, she didn’t hesitate to do the same. ‘My name is Christina. I’m here to meet some friends.’ I was impressed that she spoke good English. Except for the hotel concierge, everyone else I had encountered knew only a limited number of English words. Now that I had been rebuffed by the embassies and had no more business in Bucharest,

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I decided to educate myself about the city and its people. ‘Am I first Iranian man you meet?’ I asked, suspecting she was in the lucrative prostitution business. ‘No. I’ve met Iranian guys. They taught me many Persian words,’ she said excitedly and then uttered some swear words. I was sure she had learned those foul expressions in bed with some Iranian men. ‘Do you know what these words mean?’ I was disturbed by the revelation. ‘No, but I hear them many times. Men want me to use them.’ She suddenly looked mortified ‘Are they bad words?’ It was strange that she implicitly acknowledged her affairs and at the same time was embarrassed about her language. Her reaction intrigued me. ‘What do you do for living?’ I asked. ‘I work as salesperson in department store. I sell shoes. Keeps me busy.’ She smiled ruefully, ‘But my wage is a joke.’ She drained her wine and asked for a refill, and we carried on talking about the hotel, tourists and the girls without going into details. I could sense there was much more to discover beneath her carefully applied makeup. ‘Do you work on Saturday?’ I asked. ‘We can spend time together?’ ‘OK. Meet me in the lobby at 10?’ She smiled. ‘You will wear comfortable shoes, OK?’ I left Christina to join some of the Iranians, including Essi and Farhad, who were sitting around a large table for dinner. I had come to like the food in Bucharest — potato and vegetables seemed to be ubiquitous ingredients, very different from Iranian food. ‘Drinks are on me,’ said Essi cheerfully, waving to the waiter. Within minutes, there were a few bottles of Romanian red and white wine on the table, which put everyone in a

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celebratory mood. After having the first glass I felt a bit tipsy and, uncharacteristically, fancied a second one, believing I knew what I was doing. ‘That woman in the pink dress, sitting by the window, has been gazing at you,’ said Essi, nodding in her direction, ‘go and invite her to dance.’ I received a warm smile once I looked up. Alcohol had already woven its mysterious spell about me, which made it easier for my brain to command my legs to get up and walk towards her. ‘Shall we dance?’ I offered my hand. She stood up without hesitation and within seconds we were on the dance floor dancing to the band. We both found it a bit awkward at first, but slowly our bodies took over and we moved in harmony with the music, which sounded like Spanish salsa to me. ‘Are you having fun?’ I said loudly into her ear, but the look on her face suggested that she hadn’t understood my question, although she nodded anyway. She was a good dancer and led me through the difficult parts very skilfully. When the music finished, I politely thanked her and moved back to my table. ‘Good going!’ said Essi, refilling my glass. The music and dancing continued and everybody seemed to be having a good time. After the third glass of wine I felt a bit off balance. I had never drunk three glasses of wine at once before, and was feeling increasingly sleepy, so I decided to go to my room and crash. When I woke up in the morning I had a bad headache and was a bit disorientated. I took a shower, then went straight to the restaurant for breakfast. After the first coffee I felt my brain was gradually getting into gear and my headache began to ease. When I went to pay I noticed that my wallet wasn’t in my back pocket. During my trip I had always carried my passport and wallet in my pocket.

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I rushed back to my room to look for them. I immediately found my wallet but I couldn’t locate my passport. A wave of panic came over me that I frantically searched every single drawer and all my bags. ‘Where is the bloody thing?’ I cried. Pondering the consequences of not having a passport in a foreign land made me shudder. Where can it be? I racked my brain trying to remember the places I had been the night before. I must have dropped it or left it somewhere last night. I stopped rummaging through my bags and immediately went to the concierge. ‘My passport is missing. Has anybody handed it to you?’ I asked nervously. After a few minutes of checking records and asking his colleagues in the back room he returned to the counter. ‘No, I’m afraid we haven’t received anything,’ he replied, looking very sympathetic. He helped me find the address of the Iranian embassy and without delay I hailed a taxi. My brain continued to hunt for clues and suddenly a frightening possibility came to me; the woman who had danced with me! In a split second, Kamal’s business and the stealing of passports flashed through my mind. Is she one of those who targets tourists like me? I wondered. It was Friday and our bus was due to leave Bucharest for Istanbul on Sunday. I only had a few hours to get a travel document from the embassy. ‘Fill out this form first and then I’ll tell you what can be done.’ The embassy clerk handed me the form after hearing my story. I quickly filled it out and returned it to him. ‘We can issue some temporary travel papers to enable you to return home, but the process will take at least three working days,’ he said, looking sympathetic. Realising that there was nothing I could do, I thanked him and left the embassy in a miserable mood. I had to reschedule my return to Istanbul

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and extend my stay in the hotel for a few more nights. I would definitely report the woman who had danced with me the night before. Back at the hotel, I went straight to the desk to sort everything out. A woman from the back room approached me and introduced herself as the hotel manager. She offered once again to search the room with me and within minutes we were busy searching thoroughly. I was surprised when she asked me to lift the mattress. ‘Why? I never put anything under my mattress.’ After shifting the mattress to the side, she pulled out the bed sheet and suddenly my passport fell to the floor. I couldn’t believe my eyes! I had absolutely no recollection of hiding my passport between the sheets under my mattress. I felt a surge of relief that I wouldn’t have to reschedule my return to Istanbul, then smiled at the hotel manager and vigorously shook her hands to express my gratitude. The experience left me with a bitter life lesson — I promised myself that I would never again drink more than I could handle, a promise I’ve more or less kept.

On Saturday morning, Christina turned up at 10 o’clock as planned. She looked stunning in a pair of jeans tucked into elegant leather boots, which matched her stylish brown leather jacket. ‘Today, please take me to your work … and your home? I want to see real life in Romania,’ I said, carefully forming my sentences. ‘Work okay, but I need to think about taking you to my home a little,’ she said as we walked out the door into a sunny but very cold day. She was working in a department store where the shelves looked less than half full and there were only a small number

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of shoppers browsing through the limited variety of products in each department. Compared to Iran and Turkey, it was apparent that in a communist country people were presented with few choices, and compared to what I would later see in the West, goods were very limited. I was puzzled. Her outfit looked nothing like the outfits in the shops. I pointed to her clothes, then to those hanging on the racks and shrugged my shoulders. ‘Where do you buy?’ I asked. ‘Bucharest, no!’ she chuckled. ‘Turkey. I buy from tourists.’ Life behind the iron curtain was bleak indeed. I recalled some of the history books I’d read, about the post-war division of Europe into East and West. Romania’s economy, culture and political structure had all been re-formed and dominated by Mother Russia. The country was dealing with an economic crisis, which meant shortages for the average Romanian. Scarcity was evident everywhere, but I couldn’t consider it as poverty. Basic items were affordable, so the system was providing its citizens with the basics at least. Unlike Tehran, I didn’t see beggars on the footpaths asking for pennies, nor did I witness destitute tramps living in shop doorways or under bridges. In Iran, after the revolution and during the war, the middle class began to gradually diminish and the gulf between the poor and the rich widened. I couldn’t see the same degree of inequality in Bucharest. The government wasn’t concerned about whether people liked the style of their shoes, only that they should have shoes, but it seemed to me that ordinary people were fed up with a life of scarcity and limitation. My impression of communist Romania entirely undermined my previous romantic notions. I realised how foolish I had been to build castles in the air about a communist paradise, chasing dreams of a world where communism would end the dominance of selfish imperialist powers. All claims in books

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and articles about the socialist world seemed to be a pack of lies, and any notion of Romania enjoying an equitable social system and economic benefits appeared to be false. The only equality the system had spawned was the equality of hopelessness and despair. People had shelter and food — all the essentials to survive — but survival by itself is not enough. During the revolution in Iran, many intellectuals lectured us about the dream of living in an Islamic heaven on earth, brimming with happiness, wealth, equality and freedom. We ended up living in a land brimming with religious darkness, oppression and inequality, with a set of laws that stripped people of their civil and social rights. It was nothing but a scam. I sensed there were similarities between communist and Muslim governments — the promise of a better world despite the steady decline in the quality of people’s lives, everything for the glory of the motherland, and no place for individualism or civil rights. In communist Romania, people were coerced into accepting the government. I realised that communism was perhaps the biggest scam of all. When we sat in a restaurant for lunch, I studied the menu and the prices. Compared to Turkey, food was rather cheap; a good steak with salad and chips was less than 50 to 60 leu. ‘How much money a teacher or engineer make?’ I asked, wishing we could speak more easily. I knew that wages differed less in communist countries than they did in Western countries. ‘Maybe 1000 leu or 4000 leu?’ After a few mental calculations I figured the average income based on the official exchange rate was about $120 per month compared to the $550 per month I made as a tutor! After lunch Christina showed me some of the sights of Bucharest, but the cold made walking for too long unpleasant, so I indicated that I would like to stop for coffee.

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Christina led me to a nice cafe in a hotel in the city centre. ‘You want to make me fat?’ she joked after I ordered chocolate cake. My day with her, despite our halting conversation, was becoming the highlight of my trip. It was fascinating to get to know a person from a different world, with a different language, culture, ideology and background. ‘Where did you learn English?’ I asked her. ‘Not Russian at school?’ I was pretty sure Russian was the second language offered in communist countries. ‘Yes, Russian at school. I learned from books and tapes. When I started at the university, there was an Arab student who made me interested in English.’ She took a sip of her coffee. ‘I speak to many tourists — they help me learn.’ I was impressed to know she had taught herself English. ‘What did you study at university?’ ‘I studied chemical engineering only for one semester … it wasn’t for me. I did not want five years study for small salary.’ She smirked. ‘Already too many engineers.’ Some people might be content to work on the assembly line or sweep floors, but most us want more out of life. Not only money, but a sense of accomplishment, if not fame and glory. We caught a taxi to her place, which was rather far from the city centre. There were many similar blocks of units, built with that bland trademark Soviet style. In her neighbourhood there wasn’t a single detached house; it looked like people in Romania had only one option — to live in apartments. There were some kids playing outside the buildings but not many cars on the streets, another sad reminder of the material poverty of Christina’s world, though with hindsight, a world without cars seems to have its advantages. When we walked into her unit, her younger brother and sister were in the living room and Christina introduced me to them. They didn’t know English so we used the universal sign

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language of smile, nod and a handshake to greet each other. They looked friendly and polite, which I suspected were rare qualities in teenagers when meeting a stranger. The furniture in the unit was fairly old and the only electronic equipment I could spot was an old TV perched precariously atop a wooden stand. The walls were all beige with a few marks and stains. The matching carpet looked old and worn. Christina’s room had a single bed, a wooden wardrobe and a shelf containing dozens of books. ‘Do you like reading?’ I asked, pointing at her bookshelf. I was distracted by her bed. Farhad had said that Romanian girls took their clients home, and I couldn’t help wondering if Christina did the same. ‘Yes, I like books. I read many Russian books.’ She reached out to get a book from the shelf ‘This is best, Sholokhov, The Don.’ It was And Quiet Flows the Don by Sholokhov, one of the best books I’d ever read. I glanced at the unfamiliar Cyrillic script, remembering the story and the characters. I longed to ask her opinion on Marx, Lenin and communism, the system that had cast a shadow on their lives and their happiness, but our English wasn’t up to the task. Her brother appeared, and they spoke together in Romanian. I felt she was tired of my questions and was looking for an excuse to avoid them. She turned to me with a smile. ‘You go now to hotel?’ I nodded. ‘I like to see you again.’ ‘Okay, I come and see you tomorrow before your bus leave.’

When I got back to my hotel, I saw a few Iranians in the lobby, including Essi’s wife who was sitting by herself. ‘Hi, are you savouring your solitude?’ I asked, with a hint of irony.

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‘Yes, but I’m sure Essi’s having a much better time,’ she said pointedly. ‘So where is Essi? In the dog house, huh?’ I winked at her. ‘Probably finding more takers for his fake chains.’ She laughed bitterly. I was stunned to hear that she knew about the fake jewellery, and about Essi’s gallivanting. I was speechless and dropped into a seat beside her in silence. ‘He thinks I’m dumb and that I don’t have a clue about what he’s up to. The problem is I can’t do anything until our visa to Canada is granted,’ she said, gazing into the distance. ‘I’m biding my time.’ I hadn’t seen her so sad before and didn’t know what to say to comfort her. ‘I’m going to get myself a drink, what would you like?’ I asked, trying to cheer her up and change the subject. ‘A glass of red wine please.’ She looked pensive. I wasn’t married and didn’t know much about marriage but I could tell that her love for Essi had turned sour and their marriage was failing. Why does she confide in me? I wondered. Evidently, she was smart enough to realise I wasn’t one of Essi’s breed; I decided women could be quite perceptive about the male species. After dinner, I went up to my room. It had been a very long day, and I was looking forward to a good night’s sleep. I kept thinking about Christina, about our talks, our meals and our unusual relationship. Except for Hanna, I had never been so close to any girl. In fact, my talk with Christina had been more open and honest than with Hanna, whom I’d always feared I would lose. Regardless of the way she earned a living, she was a smart, sensitive and likable person. The following day, a couple of hours before our departure, Christina joined me in the lobby, as we’d planned. I was thrilled to see her again and confused about my feelings for her. I had been away from my loved ones for two weeks and she was the

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only person with whom I had connected in a foreign land. ‘My address,’ I said, handing it to her and miming writing. I very much wanted to stay in touch with her. ‘Sure! I give you, too.’ She fished a pen from her handbag and jotted down her address on a piece of card. The lobby was noisy so I indicated that we should step outside into the backyard of the hotel, where there was a beautiful garden. Nobody else was there on that cold winter afternoon. She reached out and took my hand. ‘You are a good man,’ she said, gazing at my hand. ‘I am happy there are still good men in the world.’ I smiled. For a moment I was tempted to give her some advice, asking her to change the course of her life, but I bit my tongue and thought better of it. How could I allow myself to do that? I would be out of her life within a few hours, probably for good, and what did I know about the realities of her life. ‘I do not like … you know, with men, but I need money, for me, for my family.’ She looked out across the garden. This was the real Christina talking, I decided. It became apparent to me that, in spite of our differences, Christina and I had a few things in common, one of which was the bondage that had tied our hands and sealed our mouths, the bondage that had stopped us from becoming who and what we desired to be. I held her hands and looked into her eyes. Without thinking, I kissed her on the lips and we embraced. In those brilliant moments, I could feel her skin, her breath and her body pressed against mine, I could smell her hair. It was beyond physical contact; it was the unparalleled feeling of being one. I had lost awareness of my surroundings. It was surreal. We sat down on a bench, still holding hands, and talked some more. ‘You are a wonderful girl Christina — very smart.’ I looked into her eyes, hoping she could see that I believed in

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what I was saying, hoping that my sincerity would be enough. ‘You will find good life.’ I didn’t want to part with her but my time was limited and I had to get my luggage to the bus. Finally I said goodbye and climbed onto the bus. I looked through the window and saw Christina raising her hand in farewell. I wished I could have stayed longer to get to know her better, but I had to go back and deal with my own predicament, which had been put on the back burner for a few days. Like her, I was one of the many who were struggling to get out of the rut they were in. It was easy to blame the economy or the political system, but Rolland had taught me to be in charge of my life regardless of the circumstances — though I still found that lesson easier said than done. On the bus back to Istanbul, I reflected on all the things I had seen and learned during my trip, all the people I had met. I thought about Christina, her world of shadows, and about my first kiss. Perhaps Farhad was proud of sleeping with several young Romanian girls, but I was profoundly pleased with the human connection I had made with Christina. If there was one thing that would stay with me for the rest of my life, it would be my first kiss in Bucharest.

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It was a relief to be back home, despite all the ambiguities about my future in Iran. I kissed the door frame like a longlost friend as I entered the room I shared with my younger brother. After my failed attempt to find a new place in another part of the world, I was now back in my own sanctuary. I couldn’t imagine anything in the world to rival the belonging I felt as I made myself a cup of tea in the kitchen. My parents and siblings were all surprised to see me back. I could tell they would have preferred to receive a phone call from me in another country. ‘So, what happened?’ asked Tajee, looking bewildered. ‘Didn’t you seek asylum at the UN office in Turkey?’ I dodged her questions with a few short comments without going into any detail. That night, as I lay in my own bed trying to sleep, my mind was racing with the things I had seen and the people I had met on my trip to Turkey and Bucharest. I wished I’d had a

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camera with me to record the images of the people and the places I’d seen: the queue in front of the UN office, Taksim Square in Istanbul, the red-light district, the historic buildings in Bucharest, and of course, Christina. Alas, it was too late; the trip was now behind me. It had been an eye-opening experience, which had also broadened my understanding of the world around me. Although neither Turkey nor Romania was part of the developed world, they still had certain features I found appealing; no sirens or aerial bombings or war. But more than this was the people’s freedom to have parties and enjoy music, to mingle with the opposite sex, more equality for women, a more secular society, and less chaotic traffic on the streets! Now I understood that there was a chance that my country could change for the better and that Iranian people could one day live happily again without war and oppression. The trip had helped me discover some truths about life, and also allowed me to test my character and my principles. Despite that, I was now back in the same familiar box, although I now knew there was a colourful and exciting world out there. I also knew that the regime’s ideology was all superstitious nonsense, which was being inculcated either at school or through their powerful propaganda machine. Before my trip, I knew that I wouldn’t be cursed or turned to stone if I didn’t accept their dogma, but now I was absolutely certain. Nevertheless, by being constantly bombarded by the regime’s propaganda, even the most sensible soul could be affected. After a day or two, I contacted my students to resume tutoring. Luckily, I was able to get right back into it — to be busy again without brooding about the future. This time I had a clearer head and a stronger determination to thrive in my tutoring business, as I recognised that it was probably the best alternative I had at the time.

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I had been back just over a week when I received an envelope from Herasat. The official stamp in blue ink was enough to set my heart racing. I anxiously took the letter to my room to read. I had been invited to an interview! Do they know I intended to seek asylum but chose not to pursue it when I was at the UN office in Ankara? I wondered. I didn’t know what to expect at the interview, so I contacted a couple of distant friends who had been through a similar process before their university admission. It was apparently customary for the majority of the questions during such interviews to be about religion, so I needed to read and memorise lots of stuff about Islam. I desperately wanted to get into university and was prepared to pretend that I was a genuine Muslim and that I had no objection to the Islamic regime. I also stopped shaving a week before my interview to grow a beard. In accordance with the regime’s viewpoint, shaving was against Islamic traditions and hence unacceptable. So as a non-believer, I was prepared to look and speak in the guise of a believer if it would get me into university. Unfortunately, after the Cultural Revolution orchestrated by the regime, the number of people who were living double lives was increasing exponentially; how you appeared on the outside was different from what you believed on the inside. Such hypocrisy was more prevalent in government departments and gradually spread to the police force, schools and universities. In particular, schoolteachers had to prove, through their appearance and their teachings, that they were devout followers of the regime and its ideology; their jobs and livelihood would be at stake if they didn’t. It must have been suffocating to work in any department run by the regime. On my interview day, a man who was wearing rather large glasses and an impressive beard called me to his room.

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He didn’t look very friendly but was calm and respectful. I felt a bit like I imagine Winston felt meeting O’Brien for the first time in George Orwell’s classic 1984 — filled with both trepidation and awe. ‘You think you’re now ready to get into university?’ he asked after I settled myself in my seat. ‘I’ve been ready for nearly two years now.’ I managed a smile despite feeling very anxious. He started questioning me to test my religious knowledge and see whether I was performing my daily prayers. Fortunately, I could answer all the questions and my confidence increased. He put a folder on the desk, leaned forward and looked into my eyes. ‘I want to make sure you won’t cause any trouble. Your record worries me. How can you put my mind at ease?’ he asked in a serious tone. I wasn’t prepared for that question and I didn’t see any reason for further pretence. ‘I’m just an ordinary guy wanting to get on with my life. Why do I have to be trouble?’ I paused. ‘I won’t be any trouble.’ My response was honest and I was fairly sure he felt the sincerity of it. He spent a few minutes writing in my file and then let me go. ‘You should receive a letter in a week or two.’ I decided to keep my beard in case they invited me for a second interview. I now had a glimmer of hope about starting my tertiary studies. I wasn’t pleased with my duplicity but it was common enough in Iran, which eased my conscience. The entire system was based on superstitions, lies and pretence anyway. Tutoring took all of my time during the following two weeks, which prevented me from dwelling on the outcome of the interview, until one evening I entered the house to found an envelope on the kitchen bench. My hands were shaking as

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I opened it. I stopped breathing until I read the first line; I had been admitted! At last, after living in the wilderness, I could now enjoy my right to study at university. It was hard to believe. I read the letter again word by word, still unable to believe what it said. Tears welled up in my eyes as I sat down and let out a long breath. I knew my family would be relieved and overjoyed to hear my news — they had been constantly concerned about me. It was the beginning of a new chapter in my life. With a degree in Civil Engineering, I could expect brighter job opportunities as well as better pay. I was hungry to learn and grow in my new profession, full of hope — some of the brightness of the outside world had penetrated my dark little box. I took the letter to Khajeh Nasir Toosi (KNT) University, my allocated university in Tehran for enrolment. It was the middle of second semester, which meant I still had to wait months before the new academic year began.

Now that I had been given the opportunity to continue my studies at university, my agitated mind was slowly growing calmer and the currents that governed my life were becoming easier to navigate. Being so caught up with the revolution, politics, the war and their repercussions had prevented me from focusing on other things such as the arts. Music in particular had a special place in my heart. I loved listening to Persian classical music because of its poetic and cultural richness, though I can’t say I was as fond with its sombre melodies and instruments. I also enjoyed listening to Western pop music in spite of not understanding the lyrics. (Now I’m older and more familiar with English, I realise that my lack of understanding may not have been due to my lack of language skills — searching for meaningful pop lyrics is usually futile.)

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There was something in music that enthralled me; it could make me feel sad or happy, lethargic or energetic, isolated or part of a larger whole. I didn’t have a clue why I had such a deep emotional reaction to it. It was absurd that the Islamic regime regarded most music as a source of sin, and pop music as illicit, corrupt and vulgar. Yet they constantly played martial music and sentimental tunes on radio and television to stimulate nationalistic feelings and engage people in their attempts to triumph in the war with Iraq. It became apparent to me that music was a powerful tool to unite people in many ways. One instrument, which seemed to bypass my ears and tug powerfully on my heartstrings was the piano. I had collected all the works I could of a famous Iranian pianist, Javad Maroufi, and enjoyed his music immensely. His audio cassette was like a book with wonderful stories, which left me with a profound feeling of euphoria. It could temporarily take me into a different zone where I felt free, centred and sophisticated. It felt as if piano was an instrument through which one day I could speak not only to people but to the universe, too. By sheer chance, I met a piano teacher when I was in a bank waiting in a queue to be served. ‘I started playing piano when I was twelve years old, and have been teaching it for more than ten years now. Do you play?’ he asked me. ‘I’ve never even touched a piano key, but I’d love to learn,’ I confessed. ‘Why don’t you give it a try? Here’s my number.’ He handed me his business card. ‘There’ll be no charge for the first lesson.’ ‘OK. Can I make an appointment right now?’ I asked on impulse. ‘I don’t have a piano at home, so the lessons will have to be at your place.’ He agreed and we set a date for my first lesson. The following week when I entered his house, in a wealthy suburb in the north of Tehran, I was filled with excitement and

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couldn’t wait to get started. He ushered me into the dining room where his grand piano was located. ‘Sit here and watch!’ he said and settled himself before the piano. He started playing ‘Golden Dreams’ by Javad Maroufi. As his fingers glided over the keys, the thrilling sound echoed in the room; it was extraordinary. It was the first time I had watched someone play such an astonishing piece of music so skilfully. It was golden indeed and the dreams of playing piano like him one day overwhelmed me. It was like a powerful drug affecting my senses, my nerves and my soul. At that very moment, I made a decision to follow my passion for piano and to make it an inseparable part of my life. The first lesson wasn’t too difficult and I learned some basic notes, and got the feel of the keys. I was overjoyed, and eagerly booked my next piano lesson without knowing how to practise at home. We have a melodica at home; that should be sufficient for the time being, I thought. When I got home, I straightaway went to find the small melodica we had kept in the storeroom. Now that I had touched a real piano with my own fingers, it was a bit offputting to see how small my melodica was; only big enough for one hand. This lovely instrument wasn’t electric, so I had to blow into its pipe when pressing the keys. At home, I started practising the notes I’d learned, needing only my right hand to play at this stage. It was a new experience and I found it very enjoyable, but it didn’t take long to discover two problems with my lovely melodica. First, I was putting too much pressure on my lungs. Second and perhaps more unpleasantly, I had to stop frequently and drain the accumulated liquid from it, which was mainly produced by the humidity of my breath. During the third lesson, my teacher gave exercises that required both hands to work simultaneously. My left hand seemed pathetic at first and wasn’t a good a learner. It was now

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essential to practise with both hands at home on my melodica. I didn’t give up. I practised the notes with my left hand until, by sheer stubbornness, the clumsiness in my fingers subsided. My intention was to practise on each hand at home and then play together during my lesson on my teacher’s piano. Unfortunately, this plan didn’t succeed, as my hands appeared quite uncoordinated when working together. There were times when my concentration was broken and utter despair set in. How was I ever going to emulate my teacher and create those beautiful melodies I so admired? Or indeed, how was I going to play anything that would satisfy my tastes or ambitions? I was also getting headaches from blowing into the pipe for too long during my practice sessions at home. At the end of the second month, it finally hit me that I couldn’t continue my piano lessons without having a bigger instrument at home. Once again, I was confronted by two problems: first, I didn’t have enough money to buy a piano; second, how was I going to fit a large instrument in our small house? I could solve the first problem by borrowing some money, but the second problem had no solution. I was sharing a small bedroom with my younger brother and fitting a piano in that room was out of the question. Similarly, there wasn’t any free space in the rest of the house for it. Though I desperately wanted to carry on learning to play piano, I had to accept that without the right instrument on which to practise, it was impractical and futile. I couldn’t deceive myself any longer; I had no choice but to quit.

I had five more months of full-time work and happily got on with my tutoring job. One day at the end of tutoring Habib, one of my students, his uncle approached me and introduced himself. He was rather tall and seemed to be in his late

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twenties. ‘Hi, my name is Reza,’ he said with a smile, shaking my hand warmly. We discussed Habib’s progress, the pollution in Tehran, and some other icebreakers, hitting it off straight away, and at my next tutoring session, we set a date to catch up for coffee. As planned, we caught up at Mellat Park in the north of Tehran. I loved that park with its vast landscape, especially the small lake with its ducks and geese. It was like an oasis of calm in the heart of Tehran, which was infamous for its relentless noise and tumult. ‘How long are you planning to stay in Tehran?’ I asked Reza. I’d heard that he lived in America. ‘I’m not sure. I need to sort out a few things before going back and carrying on with my studies at the university.’ His demeanour changed, and the liveliness suddenly vanished. It was clear that my question reminded him of something that was still troubling him. I changed the subject. ‘Are you interested in mountain climbing? Come and join my climbing group on Friday morning, you’ll love it. It’s the perfect season for it,’ I suggested. ‘Great idea, yes, I’d love to come along.’ Nothing in the world can surpass an early spring morning on the mountains around Tehran — the fresh air, the stunning scenery, the blossoms on the branches, the singing birds and the exhilarating exercise. The seven of us all loved climbing, and Reza, although not as vigorous as me, nevertheless appeared to be fit and climbed without falling behind. ‘You’re doing well. You must exercise regularly,’ I said. ‘I used to do martial arts in America for two years, but not much recently,’ he replied, panting as we meandered up a steep track. We stopped somewhere flat for some stretching exercises, and it was his turn to shine. He had a strong, flexible body, capable of doing fifty push-ups in one go. Being in good

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shape was important to me, and I recognised that we had that in common. ‘Did you like America?’ I asked him the following week when we were sitting in a cafe. ‘Oh, yes, it’s a land full of opportunities. In America, everything’s possible if you work and pay the price for it,’ he replied. ‘So you should be there now! Why are you wasting your time here?’ I asked jokingly. ‘I still need to see my family.’ He sighed. ‘But, honestly, my marriage in America failed a few months ago and I’m here seeking solace among my loved ones.’ ‘Wow! You were married while you were studying?’ I was now curious to know more about him. ‘About three years ago when she was here on holiday, I met her for the first time at a dinner party. She was full of life and energy, the kind of girl you rarely see here.’ He started playing with his ring. ‘She also became fond of me and, through the host, who was her close friend, we began seeing each other.’ Reza was a handsome guy and it came as no surprise to me to find out he was popular with girls. ‘However, one thing I didn’t know was that she had to get married if she wanted to stay in America; that was her parents’ condition.’ It was a known fact that Persian parents were not easy about their single daughters living alone in a foreign country. Perhaps this applied to parents in other countries as well. ‘Gradually, I developed a fondness that went beyond a boyfriend–girlfriend relationship and our marriage became inevitable.’ ‘What year was that?’ I asked. ‘In 1980, after I moved to America. The first few months were all honeymoon and fun, but then the home truths began to hit hard. I didn’t know much about the new place or the

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language, which made it very hard for me to fit in. To make life bearable, I enrolled at the university and started studying. Luckily, we were still enjoying her family’s financial support,’ He paused. ‘Adding to my misery, she slowly drifted away and I couldn’t decipher what was going on in her head. She didn’t show much affection towards me.’ He sighed and gazed out of the window. He then explained how the issues at home inhibited his progress in his studies and social life. ‘I did all I could to rekindle the warmth and love in our marriage, but to no avail. To make a long story short, last year I discovered that she had had an affair with an American bloke. After lashing out at her, I left and stayed at my friend’s place.’ He gazed down at his feet. ‘Betrayal is immensely hurtful.’ Plainly he was still deeply hurt by his wife’s behaviour. ‘Now I’m here, at home, I feel that I was very naive and stupid for marrying her. That’s why I want to have a fresh start,’ he said. It was good to see that, to some extent, he had already begun to be reconciled with his heartbreaking experience. I refused to make any judgement about his wife, as I hadn’t heard her side of the story. It would have been easy to blame her for betraying him but obviously they both had been floundering in the unfamiliar currents of migration, marriage and commitment. My initial perception of their sorry affair was that it had been an infatuation that acted as a catalyst for a convenient marriage. ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ I suggested, to cheer him up. ‘It’s a beautiful spring day out there.’ He gave me a quick smile, and I asked him about the length of his stay in Tehran. ‘Not sure yet. I’ve applied for a job in the marketing division of an importing company. If I get that job, I’ll stay for a while,’ he replied. ‘So I’ll be praying day and night for that job to be granted to you!’ I said cheerfully.

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We continued to meet almost once a week, which provided me with the opportunity to ask him about America, the land of the Great Satan, as Khomeini, the Iranian supreme leader, called it. ‘How did you find the Americans?’ ‘Similar to any other people I guess, you find good and evil everywhere. This is more obvious in our own country Iran. To connect with them I needed to improve my English and by the time I was ready to start connecting with some American guys in the university, my marriage was in trouble.’ He sighed. ‘To begin a new friendship you need to be in the right spirit and that’s impossible when your marriage is on the verge of breaking up, which is why, I should confess, my understanding of people in America is shallow.’ ‘How do you compare it with Iran?’ ‘Here, if you live away from the major cities, your chances of finding a good job or even studying are limited. In America, each state is like a country in itself and they try to offer the best facilities to their people. Overall, opportunities are much better there.’ His description of people’s lifestyle, cars, farms, supermarkets and so on further fuelled my thirst to get more information about America. It looked like the Great Satan had served the Americans much better than God’s disciples were managing to do in Iran. Secretly I was eager to travel to America and see things for myself. I also had a similar hankering to visit Israel, which was considered the eternal enemy by the Islamic regime. One day when I was at his sister’s place tutoring Habib, I noticed Reza was reading a banned book published by the MKO, the largest anti-government political party. The regime showed no mercy to MKO’s followers, who were openly at war with the government, so I found it concerning to see the book in his hands. During our next mountain climb, I decided to broach the subject.

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‘What do you think about the MKO? Do you know much about them?’ I asked. ‘I think their view on religion is quite advanced. They have even adopted the theory of evolution as a part of their principles,’ he replied. ‘I assumed you didn’t have much interest in religion.’ ‘I do now. Back in the US I met a wonderful guy at university who was a member of MKO. He told me some of their key ideological viewpoints, which I found rather convincing. Besides, since my break up, I’ve become closer to God and now I’ve been praying regularly,’ he said calmly. ‘I’m glad that you’ve been benefitting from it, but do you think that God and evolution are compatible?’ I asked. ‘Why not? He has led all the mutations and the gradual changes to reach this awe-inspiring and complex world.’ He paused. ‘If you look at it this way, there shouldn’t be any conflict between religion and evolution.’ ‘If you accept that this world is the result of gradual mutations and changes over billions of years, then how do you explain the origin of God?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know. I can’t believe this world is anything but the result of an intelligent creation. It may take centuries before we can find an explanation for God himself through our limited senses,’ said Reza. I didn’t want to push him on the subject as I noticed that he had reached a kind of equilibrium in his mind. Besides, there were some elements of reason and logic in his argument, which were more appealing than the traditional religious views. Nevertheless, there was one thing that worried me; his interest in the MKO’s ideology. This party caused the most damage to the democratic movement in Iran by resorting to violence against the Islamic regime, which provided ammunition to the government to demolish all the political parties in the country.

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I was hoping that he hadn’t been approached by the MKO’s underground teams. My tutoring job was thriving as well as my reputation as a passionate young tutor. I still had a couple of months till the start of the new academic year, and wanted to save up enough to cover my expenses during my first two semesters of university, which were supposedly quite demanding. The prospect of starting university and becoming an engineer had significantly boosted my confidence and drive to do better. For the first time in my life I was happy and proud of my achievements. Reza had become a regular member of our Friday morning mountain-climbing group and we continued to discuss different topics. One morning he said abruptly, ‘I’m beginning to hate America, after reading about their interference and manipulation of the events in this country over past decades.’ There was a serious look on his face. I personally couldn’t forgive them for the military coup they orchestrated against our only democratically elected Prime Minister, Mohammad Mosaddegh, in 1953. America only cared about maintaining its control over the oil and wanted Iran to be run by its own puppets at any cost. I always found their hypocrisy mind-boggling. It is interesting to note that, in 2009, US President Barack Obama made a major gesture of conciliation to the Iranian people when he admitted US involvement in the 1953 coup, which overthrew the entire government of Prime Minister Mosaddegh. An apology in exchange for destroying the future of a nation? I don’t think it’s enough, especially considering the dubious excuses for military intervention in more recent foreign policy. ‘What do you think about Israel?’ I asked. ‘America has been treating Israel like its fifty-first state. Without America’s unswerving military and financial support, Israel wouldn’t exist now.’ ‘True. Especially, when its existence is at the expense of the

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native people, who have been driven out of their own homes.’ He sounded irritated. Though we shared the same views on many issues, I was beginning to worry about Reza’s views on political and ideological matters. He seemed to taking the MKO’s position more frequently during our conversations. ‘If you’re dealing with a government that is brutally punishing activists, the use of violence is justifiable,’ he said firmly when we were climbing one Friday morning. ‘Isn’t that just reacting to how they treat you? I believe the opposition group should choose their response based on their own principles rather than reacting to the government’s actions.’ I was terribly wary of the use of violence, as I had personally witnessed the ramifications in our democratic movement. For instance, an explosion in parliament, which had killed seventytwo top officials a couple of years before, didn’t dissuade the regime from further suppressing activists and instead strengthened their resolve and led to increased brutality. As my eyes opened to the nature of power and rebellion, I felt my attitudes and beliefs gradually shift. I was no less a revolutionary, I just began to hope for a method of change other than revolution. ‘When they torture innocent young prisoners, threaten and abuse their families, sentence them to death, and rape them in the name of God, then they deserve the worst form of retaliation,’ he said vehemently, as though giving a speech before a large crowd. Rape in prisons was a very disturbing issue. In accordance with the Islamic regime’s beliefs, no virgin girl could be executed. Therefore, the captors had been given the green light to rape the virgin girls in order to legitimise their execution. This was just one example of the immeasurable brutality exercised in the prisons. ‘Violence breeds violence. Gandhi

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proved that non-violent resistance worked, and with that, he led the Indians to independence and freedom,’ I said. ‘Gandhi was dealing with the British. The British were civilised and Gandhi used their own laws to fight against oppression and injustice in India. The Islamic regime is barbaric and therefore non-violence won’t work against them.’ He had a solemn expression on his face. It was undeniable that the divide between us was growing. I couldn’t get through to him anymore. I was now seriously suspicious that he had been in touch with the MKO’s underground movement, as he seemed to have memorised their dogma. Exposure to their rhetoric was unavoidable and inescapable, but most of the discontents could easily spot the flaws in their calls to arms, whispered in quiet corners. ‘If you really believe the Islamic regime should be removed from power, don’t you think you need to do something about it? They will never relinquish power if we don’t make them,’ Reza said fervently. ‘I’ve been there before. I’ve put my life on the line once.’ I sighed. ‘I don’t fear confronting them again but I’m afraid of repeating past mistakes. That’s why I want to learn about myself and the world around me first. I want to educate myself.’ That was true. Unlike my past involvements, I didn’t wish to follow any party or movement without having a clear understanding of their manifesto and agenda. It was so convenient to draw the sword and brandish it in front of the enemy, but it didn’t mean you were properly equipped to fight them. ‘You mean you don’t trust your judgment about the current state of the country?’ he asked, looking disappointed. ‘The dire conditions here are obvious. The fact is that I don’t have the answer to it at present,’ I replied. ‘Besides, I want to make my own life better and then act to help others. I haven’t just come into this world for the sole purpose of solving

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the problems of this country. My personal life is as important as my social conscience.’ I knew this was in sharp contrast to the core beliefs of the leftist political parties, who expected people to give priority to the party and its goals, even at the expense of their own lives. To me it seemed like another form of bondage and I wasn’t willing to commit to that anymore. I wanted to be free. I wanted to travel, see the world and learn about other nations and cultures. I wanted to learn and grow first. As I could have predicted, my views didn’t appeal to Reza and this time we parted with the realisation that ideologically we didn’t have much in common. I was fairly confident he was somehow close to MKO and, considering my background, I decided to gradually distance myself from him; I didn’t want to get into trouble for having connections to a party I didn’t believe in. From that day on I only occasionally met him at Habib’s place when I was there for tutoring. One Tuesday afternoon, when I was approaching Habib’s house, I saw a black sedan in front of their place with two men standing outside whose appearance was unmistakeable: security forces. So strong was my sudden feeling of dread that my heart began beating wildly and my vision narrowed. I was less than a hundred metres from them. I deliberately dropped my book and, as I bent to pick it up, I smoothly turned around and started walking in the opposite direction. My eyes were constantly scanning to ensure nobody was chasing me; I didn’t dare look back. I kept my fingers crossed, hoping they hadn’t noticed my change of direction. I felt sick with trepidation but I managed to keep walking normally until I reached the main road. As luck would have it, right then a cab stopped to drop off a passenger, and became my means of escape. ‘Where are you heading?’ asked the bewildered cab driver after I snuck in without giving him any directions. ‘Ferdowsi Square,’ I said in a shaky voice. I just wanted to

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get away from that neighbourhood, far enough to feel safe. I didn’t wanted to be arrested for having links with the MKO through Reza; that would be absolutely disastrous as I despised the MKO for some of their policies, including the acceptance of violence in their campaign. The following day, I was tempted to phone and enquire about him but I knew too well their phone could be bugged, so I decided against it. Perhaps I’m completely wrong and the security forces were there for another reason, maybe for one of the neighbours? I wondered. Regardless, I couldn’t risk it. It was evident that Reza and I were now poles apart in our beliefs and our friendship was unlikely to last. With that knowledge, I felt able to end it. From that day, I didn’t turn up to tutor Habib, and when they phoned, I offered them my apologies for not being able to teach their son any longer due to my other commitments. I never again heard from Reza, and to this day I don’t know what his fate was.

After so many years, I’ve now come to believe that revolution is essentially nothing but a form of extremism; it is black and white. The chaos and unlawfulness that follow a revolution can push a nation to a precarious edge, can do permanent harm to a country, and can bring the worst out in the extremists. The Islamic revolution in 1979 literally stopped the wheels of the economy in Iran and delivered a devastating shock to its culture and civilisation. People rose up in pursuit of democracy and their civil rights, but within two years, the revolutionary clerics established a theocratic state by killing and jailing thousands of their political opponents, shattering our hopes and dreams for democracy. Today, thirty-four years after the Islamic revolution, the

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regime remains firmly in power. Hardliners and conservatives dominate a political arena limited to loyalists, where the voice of the reformists is hushed to a whisper. Critical newspapers are censored or closed and political activists are jailed. The regime still continues to fuel the fear of external enemies in order to hold on to power and suffocate opposing voices, and has thrived on crisis, uncertainty and fear. Perhaps the best way I can describe the state of Iran after thirty-four years under the rule of the extremists is to compare it to the level of air pollution in the major cities. At the time of revolution in 1979, air pollution was a term you would hardly hear or see in the papers. Nowadays, air pollution is one of the most significant problems, increasingly killing thousands of people each year. Surrounded by mountains, Tehran has a natural capacity of about four million people, but now its population is over thirteen million. During busy hours, streets in Tehran resemble a gigantic car park. Too many cars and poor-quality fuel are the main causes for this disaster. Other major cities in Iran are also amongst the worst polluted cities in the world, according to an article in Time magazine on 18 October 2013, namely Ahwaz, which tops the list. Newspapers in Iran are banned from mentioning air pollution due to the possibility of inciting unrest. Why? Who is responsible for the toxic blankets that are smothering these major cities and their residents? Who is responsible for this environmental and human tragedy? Was it because of lack of funds or poverty? No! During Ahmadinejad’s presidency from 2005 to 2013, the revenue from oil exports was allegedly equivalent to the total oil revenue in Iran’s history prior to 2005. So, was it mismanagement? Was it lack of vision? Was it lack of patriotism? Was it corruption? Was it lack of loyalty to the nation? This is how extremism functions; it’s lost, it’s blind, it’s unjust, it has no sense of priorities or of planning for the future. It is

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a tragedy that the beautiful people of Tehran and the majestic mountains that surround the city are hidden behind a veil of pollution and corruption. When I ponder the fate of revolutions in the twentieth century, such as the Bolshevik revolution in Russia, I am increasingly of the view that almost all of them were detrimental in the end. You may not agree with me, but even the formation of Israel was revolutionary. Occupying and taking possession of Palestine by force in 1948 was another form of extremism. The wounds in the Arab world and the Middle East have run too deep and the current Israeli government with its fundamentalism and lack of respect for the Palestinians will inevitably keep the country at the centre of tension and instability in the region. These wounds are not something that can be healed in the foreseeable future, at least not as long as the Israeli government acts like a bully and a cowboy, brandishing the lethal weapons with which America has supplied them. Even the US-led invasion of Iraq and the removal of Saddam Hussein from power in 2003 were damaging. Iraq has been plagued with sectarian conflicts ever since; hundreds are still being killed each month in suicide bombings, and Iraq is being torn apart. ISIS jihadists, who had been funded by the West to fight against Bashar’s government in Syria, are now in control of a large part of Iraq. Kurdistan had already declared independence from the Iraqi central government. In 2014, more than 15,000 civilians and security personnel were killed, making it one of the deadliest years since the invasion. Who were the real beneficiaries of this invasion then? Obviously, not the Iraqi people. Perhaps we should seek reform through a peaceful process rather than military invasions or revolutions. The lessons from history are loud and clear; it’s just that all too often, they fall on deaf ears.

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For the first time in many years, my life finally felt as if it was back on the correct course. I had been adrift at sea, buffeted by the winds of uncertainty and change, but I was finally approaching the safe harbour for which I had originally set sail. I was enormously excited; I couldn’t wait to walk through those large gates and begin the Civil Engineering course at my university in Tehran. My heart was singing when I first set eyes on the main building of the School of Civil Engineering from the bus stop across the street. The long wait was over. It was an auspicious moment and I couldn’t help but feel that, in passing through those gates, I was crossing both a physical and metaphorical line in my life. On campus, everyone seemed uncertain, and few people were talking to each other. It helped to realise that everyone was in the same boat — shy and unsure, but just as eager to make friends as I was. Except for a few girls, the place was crowded with male freshers.

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In my first class, I seemed to be the oldest student among my classmates; they looked so young! Everyone seemed to have gone straight into university from high school, suggesting they were about five years younger than me. There was only one girl in our class, and she seemed to be immensely shy and looked very uncomfortable, sitting in the front row. Being a girl in Iran after the revolution combined with studying Engineering in a class filled with boys could well be the biggest challenge she had encountered in her life. I shuddered when I imagined myself in her place. As I was puzzling over the poor girl’s circumstances, an older student limped into the room. He introduced himself to the class with a confident, friendly smile: ‘Hi all, I’m Karim.’ His greeting impressed me and I realised that I could probably already count on one new friend. Within the first few weeks my gregariousness enabled me to get to know some of the students in my classes, including Karim. His disability was the result of an explosion during his military service in the war zone. He was one of the tens of thousands of soldiers who were left with a permanent disability after the war. Though I was covered in emotional and mental scars from my ordeal at war, I was lucky enough to be physically intact. ‘Where did you serve?’ I asked him when we were studying in the library. ‘In the south of Iran,’ he replied, suddenly looking sombre. ‘Was it a landmine or an air attack that caused your injury?’ I asked. ‘Explosion — enemy artillery fire.’ He paused, staring at his shoes. ‘We were too close to them and they targeted us easily. The way we were driven towards the enemy’s lines without proper backing was insane. Our lives didn’t really matter. It was all ...’ He started to cough. I had heard a lot about the use

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of human shields against the well-disciplined Iraqi military machine; I had heard about the enormous massacres of Iranian soldiers due to disorganised and sloppy attacks on the enemy. In years to come I would compare it to the way thousands of Australian soldiers were killed in Gallipoli during the First World War. Karim’s right leg had been amputated below the knee and he had been fitted with an artificial limb. I felt uncomfortable talking to him about his disability, afraid that I would either say something inappropriate or evoke hurtful memories in him. It was evidently difficult to live without a leg, and I had noticed him grimace when he walked up stairs. As a proud young man, he seemed to need little help, but a lot of understanding and consideration. Karim was living independently and obviously had learned to adapt. I imagined how hard it must have been for him to accept that he would never climb mountains or play football again, to accept that an essential part of his being had been taken away from him. He was a heavy smoker and it was obvious cigarettes helped him to cope, but his persistent cough indicated that he had already damaged his lungs. ‘How are you going with Maths and Physics? They make military service seem almost pleasant, huh?’ I asked jokingly. ‘Not very well; I’ve been struggling. One of our classmates has started helping me with Maths. Frankly, I wonder if I’ll pass this semester.’ He managed a grin. Although I offered Karim support, he rarely asked for assistance. My tutoring meant that I was proficient in the fundamental subjects and was doing very well in all my classes. Despite this, my favourite subject in the first two semesters was Literature. It was a compulsory subject for all students, to enhance their level of literacy. Although I had always liked poetry, now that I was older I felt an uncanny connection

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with certain poems and started reading the work of some famous Iranian poets such as Maulana (Rumi) and Hafez. I found the depth, richness, and the rhythmic styles of some poems utterly captivating. It was amazing to see how a few verses could describe certain feelings better than a few pages of descriptive writing. I appreciated more than ever the incredible power of words. I also spent some time studying the poetry of one of my favourite contemporary poets, Nima Yushij, who had revolutionised the poetry in Iran, disregarding traditional rules and developing a free style. His poems were beautiful and resonated deeply with our time. I liked the melody and flow of the words, which made it easy to comprehend the profound and sophisticated meanings in his poems. He had been harshly criticised at first for his style, which didn’t follow traditional rhyming patterns, but it hadn’t taken long for the critics to appreciate his courageous transformation of Iranian poetry. That said, traditional poetry has always been held in high esteem for its richness and mesmerising music. I wish some of these poems could be translated into English with the same quality and effect, but I’m afraid it is impossible! A few years ago in Australia, when I was exploring poetry in English, I discovered something quite amazing: T. S. Eliot, one of many modernists who similarly participated in revolutionising poetry in the West by developing a free style, lived in the same era as Nima Yushij. They both lived from the late nineteenth century to the 1960s. Given that Nima was living in a remote town in the north of Iran cut off from the rest of the world, I find it hard to believe that one inspired the other. I like to believe that the simultaneous transformation of poetry in Iran and England was a sheer coincidence and nothing else.

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Like English, Persian is a very rich language and most Iranians are proud of their poetry and love to read it. It is common to use poems in daily conversations in order to add flavour, emphasis or value to a particular point or theme. I continued to work as a tutor to support myself, and despite that commitment I managed to do well in my studies. Unlike today when lectures are available on the internet and students can easily log on to the university’s website to listen to them, in my day we had to attend every single lecture to understand each new concept. This encouraged socialising and allowed me to interact with other students and lecturers. By the middle of my third semester, there was growing dissatisfaction with the computer facilities in our faculty to a point where a group of us decided to raise the issue with the head of school. After further discussions with more students, we decided to vote for someone to represent us in the meeting. To my surprise, I was nominated by a few of my fellows and the majority voted for me to represent the students of the School of Civil Engineering. I was proud to be chosen by them and felt responsible for getting more computers for our faculty. In the meeting with the head of school, I succeeded in getting our message across and he appeared sympathetic. ‘You may know that my hands are tied when it comes to asking for such facilities. The country is still at war and our budget has been cut to the bone. I’m happy to introduce you to the university Chancellor. I’d suggest that you get the Students Islamic Council involved. Then, no one can label this as a political protest.’ This was sage advice as I knew my actions would most likely be under the microscope. Consequently, I contacted the head of the Students Islamic Council, Akbar, and managed to meet him. When he heard my concerns about the shortage of necessary equipment, he admitted that this problem applied to all faculties. ‘I went to

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Tehran University recently and found their computer facilities ten times better than ours. I agree with you. We’ve got to do something about it. I’m happy to come along and meet with the university president.’ Though he spoke in support of our needs, I wasn’t too confident about his sincerity. After making an appointment, the following week we met with the university Chancellor. He also welcomed our campaign and admitted that limited funds were affecting the quality of education in our university. ‘True. I admit that certain facilities need improving here. I’ve already put a request to the ministry, but I guess the students’ representatives should bring this up directly with the Minister.’ I was astonished to hear him ask his secretary to make an appointment for us to see the Minister for tertiary education. Wow! This is getting more serious than I expected, I thought. Iran was unlike Western countries — meeting a Cabinet Minister would be either impossible or would involve a complex bureaucratic process. Engaging the Students Islamic Council in this matter was a brilliant idea because it eliminated any suspicion of political activity in our legitimate request for better computer facilities. I knew that meeting a Minister was a big deal, so I was nervous as we sat in his waiting room. I had made a list of our requests for discussion and ran through them with Akbar to keep him informed. The Minister, Dr Moin, received us warmly with a bright smile. His down-to-earth manner helped normalise my heartbeat. Although his beard and dress reflected his dedication to the dominant ideology, his gentle and respectful approach indicated he wasn’t from the same breed as the clergy. ‘We have limited access to computing, printing and copying facilities in our university,’ I said, starting to make our pitch now that I felt more relaxed in his presence. ‘There is only

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one PC in our computer room.’ There was a mainframe in our faculty but it was inferior to the personal computers that were becoming increasingly widespread across the world. The elite universities had already started providing their students with state-of-the-art technology, but our university was still among the disadvantaged. ‘The war, and the limited budget for higher education that is a consequence of war, are not hidden from anyone.’ He paused. ‘Nevertheless, let me see what I can do.’ He browsed through a file that was sitting on his desk. I was surprised to see how quiet Akbar was during the meeting. He seemed more like an observer and said nothing to back me up. I realised I was on my own, which made me more determined to seek what I had come to achieve for our university. ‘Dr Moin, as you pointed out, limited funds are a major problem, but we are also aware of the facilities in some other universities located in Tehran and we are just asking for fair treatment.’ He picked up the phone and conferred with his finance adviser and the head of the IT department. ‘I can’t promise that you’ll have a sufficient number of PCs in the short term, but I can arrange for seven PCs to be delivered to your university within the next month.’ I was very pleased that our efforts had paid off. Of course, seven computers wouldn’t meet the needs of a big university, but considering the times, I decided it was a satisfactory outcome. He also promised us a few printers plus the relevant accessories. After we left his office, I didn’t hide my disappointment with Akbar. I knew that the Students Islamic Council were getting all their facilities through the back door, so Akbar didn’t need to put too much effort in. I gave a weak excuse and left. I wasn’t interested in spending another minute with him.

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The following day, I passed the good news on to the students in our school with some caution since I didn’t know how much I could rely on the Minister’s promise. Most of the students welcomed the news cheerfully but some were cynical. Two weeks later when the new machines were installed in the computer room, it became apparent that Dr Moin was a man of his word. It is interesting to note that he became one of the prominent reformists in the following years, challenging the conservative establishment in the country. He was also once a presidential candidate, representing the reformists, however, his voice couldn’t prevail against the regime’s powerful propaganda machine, and he was placed second in the election.

During the first two years of university, I was snowed under with my studies and tutoring work. My main leisure activity was mountain climbing on Fridays and that was the only window of opportunity for me to meet girls. The first girl I met was three years older than me and a university dropout. Though I was still pretty hopeless at talking to girls, we had mature discussions about various subjects like philosophy and history. Back then, in our society, there was a stigma attached to marrying an older girl, which unconsciously hindered both of us from a serious relationship. The second girl was a distant relation who seemed interested in our discussions and catch-ups. However, it didn’t take me long to realise she had a couple of other guys on her list who surpassed me decisively based on her criteria. Besides, we never felt there was a special chemistry between us. And there wasn’t a third girl. I just couldn’t seem to get attract any Iranian girls. Obviously, I was a loser with girls, an absolute failure when it came to building rapport with them.

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There was, however, another option, which my father had suggested a couple of times. He had expressed his fondness for a distant relative who lived quite close to us. She was part of a family of two: a mother and a daughter. By sheer fluke I bumped into them, at a funeral of all places, and for the first time I was able to study her face carefully. In fact, only her face was visible as the rest was covered in her hijab. Her face, her manner and her glasses captured my attention. I felt there was something extraordinary behind those elegant metal-framed glasses. Her name was Susan. Realising that I had no prospect of finding love in this world on my own, I decided to rely on my family, its vigour and influence. On the night of the funeral I said to my father, ‘Agha-joon, I think I’m going to take you up on your offer.’ At first, he didn’t understand what I meant, but his smile indicated he was on my side. My mother didn’t smile when she heard my intention, but she didn’t object either. The rest of my family had mixed reactions, but they all got behind me in the end. My mother arranged a meeting with Susan’s mother and we all poured into her house one Thursday evening. It was apparent we had a good chance of prevailing: fifteen against two! I was taken aback when she appeared without her elegant glasses, and almost changed my mind. Besides, she was wearing a headscarf at home, which suggested she was serious about her hijab, but it was too late; my parents were already speaking to her mother about my desire to marry Susan. Our parents allowed us to have an hour of private conversation to get to know each other. We spoke shyly about small things, which helped break the ice. Then I seized the opportunity to ask my big question: ‘Where are your glasses?’

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‘Oh, in my room. I try to have a break from them at home.’ It was a relief to know that her glasses were still part of the package. Yes I know it seems trivial now, but when all else is veiled behind masses of cloth and all you have to work with is the oval of a face, such things do seem important! My next question was harder and more delicate. ‘What colour is your hair?’ I was entitled to know the hair colour of the girl I was going to marry, right? She smiled sweetly and to my surprise removed her headscarf. Her wavy dark brown hair cascaded over her shoulders and I rapidly added it to the pro column on my list. Revealing her hair indicated that she was taking me seriously, otherwise she wouldn’t have gone that far. At that moment I sensed that she wasn’t as strict as she seemed about her hijab, which meant I could contemplate the next step in our relationship. Back home later that night, my mind was busy processing the perplexing and unusual experience I had been through when my father shocked me by saying, ‘We’ve tentatively set a date for your engagement.’ Although I was resolutely in pursuit of a reliable girlfriend or a fiancée, I didn’t want to marry in haste and repent at leisure. My father had gone one step too far! But as soon as my mother had entered that house, she had crossed the Rubicon, and the battle for my love had been joined! The engagement party went well and two engagement rings made our relationship official. Once again the balance of invitees was in my favour: ten people from Susan’s side and fifty from mine, which should have signalled to them that messing with me equated to messing with my army of family and friends! But during the party, her mother, my only in-law, was a bit bossy. ‘Put the flowers in that corner; put the plates on the coffee table …’ Obviously, she was now part and parcel of my marriage and my life, but even surrounded by

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my entourage, I felt a little intimidated! I was the first of my friends to get myself a fiancée and I was sure that the three bandits, Saeid G, Bahman and Mahmoud, were quite jealous. I knew too well that they were even more hopeless than I was at connecting with girls. I invited them to my engagement party partly because they were my close friends, but mostly because I intended to fuel their jealousy and make them suffer. Our engagement meant that from then on I could freely spend time with Susan — my lonely days were over. We started going to the movies or to some of the large parks in the north of Tehran. I loved holding her hand when we were out. I always made sure we carried only one umbrella to give us an excuse to huddle together in the rain, holding the umbrella in my left hand and putting my right arm around her tightly to make sure she didn’t get wet! The first few weeks of our engagement turned out to be quite eventful. One evening Susan invited me to her place for dinner. Because her mother was out, Susan had to cook for us. As we were not married yet and there could be no room for potential hanky-panky, her grandma was there to watch us. When Susan located a frying pan after opening several cupboards, I sensed she was a novice in the kitchen. ‘What are you cooking?’ I asked anxiously. ‘You’ll see,’ she said quietly, avoiding my gaze. Grandma made it clear that she didn’t want her TV-watching interrupted, so Susan picked up the phone and dialled. ‘Hi Aunty, how can I cook shamey?’ Shamey was a simple dish made up mainly of minced meat and potato; even I knew how to cook it. I deliberately kept quiet to see how she was going to prepare the ingredients. To cut a long story short, the food she cooked ended up in the bin and we ate omelette for dinner instead. I made it crystal clear to her that she had

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no alternative but to learn how to cook competently in order to feed my large family at our parties, otherwise she would be marked down severely by my mother. One Friday morning, we went for a mountain climb along with a few family members. It soon became clear that she climbed mountains in much the same way as she cooked. Feeling insecure, she held my hand and I willingly allowed her to cling to me through difficult sections; I didn’t mind at all! She was soon struggling and gasping for breath, and I’m sure I heard her mutter ‘Son of a bitch!’ a couple of times. Surely I wasn’t the object of her wrath?! When we reached the top, she marvelled at the breathtaking scenery and understood at last the reason behind my love of climbing. On the way back, Susan complained about pain in her knees. I asked her to sit down on a rock so that I could examine them. Both her knees were slightly swollen. After half an hour she felt better and we slowly walked back to the foot of the mountain. Her knees troubled her for a couple of weeks and her mother wasn’t pleased about it. That was the first and the last time Susan joined me for a climb. Every time I suggested it, she pulled a face and pointed at her knees. The next incident occurred on the following week when we were walking home after watching a movie. As I was joking about a corny scene in the movie, I tickled her. She giggled and jumped, then suddenly she was on the ground. It was dark and she had missed her step on the footpath. She groaned and grasped her left foot. After a few minutes she got up and with my help limped towards her home. I was afraid to confront her mother. What was I going to do? When Susan noticed my anxiety, she put me out of my misery. ‘I’ll try to walk normally tonight in front of my mum, but if it’s worse by tomorrow morning, you’ll have to take me to a doctor.’ The next day, we ended up in a doctor’s surgery and her .

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foot was plastered to below the knee due to a fractured bone. I’ll be in the doghouse when I take her back in a plaster cast, I thought. As you can see, we were off to a flying start! Unlike me, Susan wasn’t into reading much. Not surprisingly, from the first month of our relationship, she was bombarded with information about various writers, including Rolland. When she saw the four volumes of The Enchanted Soul on her desk, she turned to me with a horrified look: ‘I haven’t read that many words in my entire life. It’ll take me forever to read all these books!’ Earlier I referred to the difference in our family structure with humour, but frankly that was one of the reasons behind many issues Susan and I would have to deal with during the first few years of our relationship. Each of us had a different background and mindset, a different set of rules for behaviour, and different views about the world around us. Our biggest challenge was to identify the differences and try to become more flexible and compatible. I can tell you that this was no easy task. When a boy and a girl meet in a party or another social event, they just talk and dance and laugh and then decide if they want to pursue a relationship. They take their time to test the waters and there is no commitment in the beginning. It was different for Susan and me; commitment preceded everything else in our relationship and we had to make it work. Susan’s father had been a limited presence in her upbringing and this was an area in which I always had to tread carefully, even to this day. He had been absent for almost every significant event in her life. He had moved to Canada after the 1979 revolution and I was disappointed when he didn’t send us his good wishes when we got engaged. Susan has never talked or complained about her dad, and I have no doubt that she has been incredibly brave and sensible about the whole thing and

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dealt with it in her own way. Even now when we talk about our early years, Susan seems at peace with herself. I have always admired her stoic ability to resolve issues and put the past behind her. In the beginning of our engagement, Susan was generally reserved and I had to do most of the talking. Like most Iranian girls, she didn’t have much leeway in her choices and every decision had to be approved by her parents. In order to protect their daughters, parents deemed home to be the only safe place and that was where girls and young women had to spend most of their lives. Our engagement was a welcome change in Susan’s life, allowing her to go out more often. One common interest we had was watching movies. Cinema, like other branches of art, had been a victim of the Cultural Revolution after 1979 in Iran. Women had to keep themselves covered, and there was to be no contact with men in movies, making it very difficult for filmmakers to tell a believable story. For instance, it was absurd to see a woman wearing a headscarf in her own bed. It was a little like American movies between the 1930s and 1960s, when the Motion Picture Production Code ruled that married couples had to appear in separate beds, and kisses could only last for a certain number of seconds. There was an abundance of movies that glorified the Islamic revolution, sanctified martyrdom and the war against Iraq, and countless movies that strove to revive and consolidate Islamic values and traditions in our society. However, despite such a suffocating atmosphere, there were clever directors who created splendid movies; directors like Kiarostami, Panahi and Hatami. Susan and I didn’t miss any of these movies when they appeared on screen. Every week I eagerly looked forward to the new issue of Film magazine. It was fascinating to read the in-depth analysis of plots, acting, and cinematography for each movie.

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The regime had forcefully censored many things after the revolution, but had failed to censor creativity and our ability to ponder and analyse. Our engagement could not last for too long because it wasn’t seen as a good omen for a girl to be with a boy without exchanging vows. So our parents once again met and set a date for our wedding. I was still a university student and by no means ready to take on the responsibility of married life. Therefore, it was agreed that, after the ceremony, Susan and I would continue to stay separately with our own parents. I simply couldn’t afford to pay rent and the other costs of a new home. We decided that had to wait. Traditionally, all the preparations and costs were our responsibility and my sisters were all involved in organising the hairdresser, the wedding dress, and the reception for the guests, and they did almost all the planning and execution. Susan wasn’t too fussed about the details, and as she had no prior experience in this area, she decided to go with the flow. It was a relief to see everything was happening without me having to do a thing! Similarly, it was the responsibility of the bride’s family to supply the essentials for the house, such as furniture and kitchen appliances, for the newlywed couple. As Susan and I couldn’t start our joint life, her mother didn’t have to worry about our dowry for some time. I hoped she would remember it in the future, otherwise I would have to cop the cost! Traditionally, depending on their wealth, parents of the bride or the groom might offer a property for them to live in, too. Unlike Westerners, we don’t have a hens’ or bucks’ night. Instead, the night before the wedding, close relatives and friends gather to celebrate the last night of being single. It is called hanabandan, which is a pre-wedding good-luck ritual dating back several hundred years, usually held by the bride’s

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family. Our hanabandan was a fabulous night of laughter, music and dance. Following tradition, henna paste was applied on Susan’s and my hands, which was a symbol of good luck and happiness for both of us. On our wedding day, Susan looked stunning in her stylish wedding dress and her hair and makeup were perfect. The only things missing were her glasses, and that was the only time I allowed her to be without them! Susan is short-sighted and I thought it was hilarious when she couldn’t identify guests at a distance. Unlike Susan, I decided not to use the services of a hairdresser and instead relied on my own skills. At first I was proud of what I had done, but after the wedding photos were printed, I realised I couldn’t have been more wrong! My hair was okay but was clearly uneven. I hadn’t trimmed my moustache, and I looked more like Ned Flanders ‘The Simpsons’ than myself! Close family and friends were invited to our wedding ceremony, which was held at Susan’s place. We were both in the spotlight and I had a strong feeling that countless eyes and minds on both sides of the family were critically evaluating our appearance and the ‘other side’. Luckily, there were few clashes, so Susan and I were spared too much distress in the ensuing months. More than a couple of hundred guests turned up at the reception, which was at a fairly decent venue in the north of Tehran. It had been set up to cater for separate groups: women and men. No live music or alcoholic drinks were permitted and the reception seemed to be only for people to gather to enjoy a meal and have a chat about politics or business. Susan wasn’t allowed in the men’s section but I was fortunate enough to enter the colourful women’s section. Unlike the men, women were dancing and ululating noisily,

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especially when they saw me enter. They had smuggled in a tape player with powerful speakers. The celebration didn’t end with the reception. It was customary to once again invite close friends and relatives to the bride’s place for a closing celebration without the restrictions and separation of the sexes. We had hired a musician who could play Persian songs on his electric organ. Nearly eighty people were dancing and celebrating until 2 a.m., which marked the end of one of the most memorable events in our lives. After our wedding, Susan gained admission to Ahvaz University in the south of Iran to study midwifery. She had to stay in a dormitory and share a room with a couple of girls. Although she was determined to continue her education, she didn’t fancy the travel, nor the distance from her home. Nor did I want her to be away from me. But distance made our hearts grow fonder as the saying goes. Luckily, the father of one of the students I was tutoring had influence in the department handling tertiary medical education and was able to facilitate Susan’s transfer to one of the universities in Tehran. Her new campus was only a kilometre from my university. This was one of the best things that happened in our joint life and her transfer to Tehran turned out to be a new chapter in our relationship. Susan and I have now been together for over twenty-six years. I’m not sure about her, but for me life would be boring without being able to tease her every day for being unfit! We’re now kind of addicted to each other; you may call it ‘love’ if you wish. We were lucky to get through the first turbulent years of our relationship. During the first year of our engagement, as a result of my bad influence, she stopped wearing her hijab in front of family and friends. She gradually picked up the habit of reading, and nowadays she reads one or two books each month. She mastered cooking skills and is considered

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one of the best cooks in our circle of friends and family. And more importantly, she’s still wearing her glasses and has never contemplated laser surgery on her eyes, and I pray she never will!

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The war with Iraq had eventually ended in 1988. Although Iran had virtually regained all lost territory by 1982 and the war could have ended then with Iran having the upper hand, the Iranian leader, in all his wisdom, decided otherwise. Khomeini’s hostile approach caused the bloodshed and destruction to continue for another six years. It was baffling: how could a leader do that to his own people? Khomeini constantly rejected calls for a ceasefire by the United Nations until the massive international sanctions against Iran finally buckled his senseless intransigence, forcing the regime to accept the UN Resolution 598 for a ceasefire in August 1988. Eight years of futile war and bloodshed, eight years of colossal psychological injuries inflicted upon two nations, eight years of indescribable pain and suffering, eight years of constant devastating harm to the economy. One tangible example of this was the Iranian currency, which had been devalued more than fifty times against the US dollar during the eight years of war with Iraq.

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Saddam and Khomeini were two leaders whose lasting legacy was one of irreparable damages to their own countries. After the war ended, the economy was quickly on the mend, thanks to huge oil exports, and there were a multitude of infrastructure projects under construction. As a result, civil engineers were in high demand, which made for brighter prospects for me. I graduated in 1991 and started working as a project engineer in a company of contractors responsible for the construction of huge wheat silos across the country. I loved my job and passionately worked long hours every day. Looking back, without a doubt I was one of the happiest men on the planet, with a profound sense of satisfaction and achievement in my life. Perhaps this is further proof that happiness is relative and can’t be simply measured by our bank balance or circumstances. One evening while I was reading the newspaper, Susan came and sat silently beside me. After living with her for a few years, I knew she had something to say but as usual was waiting for me to open the conversation. I glanced at her and she smiled conspiratorially. ‘What’s up?’ I asked, all ears, impatient for what she was about to share. ‘I’m pregnant.’ Her smile turned to a joyful grin as my brain was frantically processing the wonderful news. While we had been prepared for this to occur for a few months, it still came as a pleasant surprise for me. I put my arm around her shoulders and warmly kissed her on the cheek. It was a moment to be treasured eternally. I wasn’t sure what I had signed up for when Susan first suffered through a bad case of morning sickness; I didn’t know how to deal with it or what to do to help her. I kept telling her that everything would be all right but I wasn’t sure if I was trying to convince her or myself. As I was terribly

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ignorant about pregnancy, every now and then Susan used her knowledge of midwifery and gave me a few tips on different aspects of the subject, which alleviated my bewilderment and anxiety. I knew my life was about to change but I hadn’t a clue what changes to expect. I decided not to worry too much about the unknown and just go with it. I was inexplicably optimistic. Among all the strange developments in her life, such as morning sickness, cravings, reduced activities and increased demands for more attention, I found her incessant eating somewhat worrying. She was getting bigger each month and I wondered how she was going to lose all that weight after delivery! Exercise didn’t have any place in her routine and she was already a little overweight. I just couldn’t bear the thought of her becoming unhealthy and unhappy after the birth. She started her six months of maternity leave on week thirtythree, to relax and rest. Working in a hospital was a rather stressful job and she was looking forward to seven weeks’ rest and relaxation before the due date. But her hopes were dashed as Soha decided to start her adventures on our planet three weeks early. It was 10 p.m. on a Friday night in September 1993 when Susan emphatically announced: ‘It’s time. She’s ready to come out.’ The ultrasound hadn’t detected male genitals, which allowed Susan to confidently use the pronoun ‘she’. Due to her underlying medical conditions, Susan had already been booked for a potential Caesarean and when we arrived at the hospital, her doctor was immediately notified of the emergency. Within an hour, she was taken into the operating theatre and I was left anxiously waiting. After what seemed an eternity, an hour later, a midwife delivered the happy news that mother and baby were both in good health. Reluctantly I waited until she was transferred to the ward. Even if Susan had chosen a natural birth, I wouldn’t

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have been permitted in the delivery suite. In contrast to the West, which allows fathers to remain with their wives and hopefully witness the delivery, fathers in Iran are required to stay outside the doors and wait. I have never been present during the delivery of a baby, but I can imagine it wouldn’t lessen the profound helplessness a father feels. The only thing that makes me envy fathers in the West is that they can hear that first tender cry of their babies; that must be very special. The moment another life begins, a life that is an extension of your existence, is a joy only a parent can know. I still vividly remember the very first time I saw Soha being held by a midwife behind the nursery window in the hospital, the first time I held her in my arms and the first time I kissed her tender face. When it comes to recalling certain events, my memory tends to fail me on many details, unless they were excruciating! But it’s incredible how it has recorded the joyous moments related to Soha’s firsts so carefully, like a movie clip that I can play when I wish. During the first couple of months, Susan’s mum and my mum helped take care of Soha, but gradually their presence diminished and I became more involved in caring for her. She was so little, so innocent and so vulnerable, I felt fiercely protective of her. The first time she squeezed my finger in her tiny hand, it felt like an electric charge, carrying that instinctive and eternal message: you’re mine, I’m yours. It was amazing how she changed the dynamics in our household. Susan’s routines completely altered to suit Soha’s sleeping and eating patterns. I was fortunate enough to go to work and have a break from the unusual discipline at home. Susan was content and genuinely seemed to enjoy her time with Soha. I already loved Soha, but frankly, at the time, I didn’t feel strongly attached to her. For Susan it was different

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— there was an indescribable bond between them; it looked like they already knew each other and couldn’t stand a minute of separation. By her first birthday, Soha had already established her place in our family and could recognise her loved ones — aunts, uncles, cousins, friends — and connect with them. She had already learned the game of ‘hide and seek’, a game I relished playing every evening when I arrived home. She would hide somewhere in our small apartment and I had to find her after deliberately lingering to make it more fun for both of us. She would then run and throw herself into my arms. I can now see that Soha’s birth was a new beginning for me. My childhood was less than fantastic, so her birth was an opportunity to start all over again, playing fun games, reading children’s books, watching cartoons or ‘Play School’, playing on the seesaw or swings. Her existence has been a gift from the very first day, enriching my life; a force that has made me stretch to see the world through her eyes. Soha has been a precious part of my life’s education and growth, an excuse to have a break from my challenges at work and a blessed distraction from my troubles. I have always felt fortunate for this gift.

My performance at work must have been acceptable because by the end of the third year I was offered the position of engineering manager, an offer beyond my comprehension and one I frankly didn’t feel prepared for yet. Nevertheless, I persuaded myself to seize the opportunity and accept the offer. Managing other engineers, draftspersons and library staff was a daunting challenge for me, therefore I decided to tread carefully until I learned the ropes. With the support of my boss and the patience of my team, I slowly moulded

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myself to fit the description of my new role: a big shift from dependence to leadership. I needed a lucrative income if I wanted to secure the future of my family financially. Therefore, in addition to my fulltime job I began to take on additional design work on the weekends. This meant that I was working six to seven days a week, which allowed me to purchase my first property in the north of Tehran. I was thriving, making fairly rapid headway professionally and financially. Nevertheless, that didn’t distract me from my family and I strove to spend time with them. My social life was also improving steadily. Despite having it all and living a relatively fruitful life, there was a nagging voice inside my head asking for something out of the ordinary, something beyond just the conventional elements of a happy life in Iran. This didn’t mean I was after adventures, since by no means could I be classed as an adventurer, unless you considered mountain climbing risky! It couldn’t be depression because I had a very active life; I just felt that my heart was somewhere else. Looking back, I think my addiction to foreign books from countries like England, Germany, France and Russia had planted the seeds of curiosity, an insatiable desire to know about other countries and nations. Then my trip to Turkey and Romania, which had allowed me to get a snapshot of the world outside Iran, added to my desire to travel, to see and experience life in Western countries. Another reason behind my increased curiosity was that ‘wisest’ of teachers: television! Though illegal, satellite dishes were increasingly spreading in the big cities. The majority of viewers were hooked on Turkish channels, which contained entertaining shows, music and movies, in sharp contrast with the sombre, tedious and slow programs on the national TV channels. People didn’t know the Turkish language but were fascinated by the

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colour, joy and energy in the Turkish programs. Contrary to most Iranians, when I bought my first satellite dish, I opted for English programs such as BBC, CNN and TNT (Hollywood movies). I could follow the news, which kept me interested in world affairs and drew me to life in the Western world. It became my routine to get home in the evening, turn on the satellite TV and watch BBC World or some other English channel. It was fascinating to see the outside world through the TV screen in my living room. Technology had made the world smaller and had brought all nations closer to one another. Apart from the news, I also began to follow a couple of TV series in which English was spoken with more articulation and clarity; my English wasn’t good enough to understand rapid conversations. Watching a few episodes of ‘The Bold and the Beautiful’ put my head in a total spin. I was shocked to see so many extramarital relationships in that series and found it very off-putting. Though I had learned about sexual freedom in the Western world, I had no idea that affairs were so pervasive in America. I was so horrified by the revelation and its potential influence on me that I stopped watching such decadent shows! How am I going to live in a Western country with such an abhorrent culture? Heaven forbid! I thought. I continued to watch some English channels but my enthusiasm towards the West began to weaken. ‘This is something I can’t possibly accept or adapt to,’ I confided to one of my acquaintances who had lived in America. ‘Calm down buddy! ‘The Bold and the Beautiful’ is just a cheap TV soap opera — it doesn’t reflect real life in the US in any way whatsoever,’ he said confidently. ‘Its rating in America is very low, and you find it on a free satellite channel because it’s cheap for them to broadcast.’ His reassurance once again rekindled my curiosity about the free world. In my recent trip to Iran in 2013, I discovered that now people

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have access to hundreds of channels, including a few specifically produced in Persian for Iranian people. The network of satellite television has become a large virtual world, engrossing more than half the population. The Persian programs are produced in America and England and are mainly sponsored by their governments. It wouldn’t surprise me if one day the real world of an Islamic country is overturned by the powerful virtual world that more people inhabit. Despite unlimited funds spent by the regime to filter such programs and counter the effects of this phenomenon, I guess it is only a matter of time before this virtual world becomes reality. Another reason behind my inner dissatisfaction was the suffocating religious rituals that took place in certain months each year. Generally, Islamic governments are not very tolerant of festivities and vibrant displays, especially during the month of Ramadan. In particular, mourning is an essential tenet of the Shia denomination of Islam; there are weeks of mourning in their calendar each year. After about 1400 years, they still mourn for the Shia Imams on the anniversaries of their death as intensely as though they had died just yesterday. The founder of the Islamic regime, Khomeini, once said: ‘We survive on mourning.’ As an essential part of their duty and commitment, the government does all it can to make the Shia Imams’ death anniversaries the gloomiest days, especially through national radio and television. My pet aversion, however, has been the religious mourning for the third Imam, which goes for more than a week, with processions on the streets till early morning each night. People chant and flagellate themselves as a religious punishment during the procession to commemorate the martyrdom of the third Imam, the grandson of Muhammad. The loudspeakers, keyboards and drums prevent anyone in their vicinity from sleeping or resting. In Tehran, near my

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residence, there were regular thunderous processions in this particular period, which drove me mad. Bizarrely, the nature of the processions had changed over time. The marchers didn’t look like mourners and the processions didn’t look like mourning. Young men in fashionable black outfits seemed to be out there for entertainment, especially when they knew there was a multitude of pretty girls watching them. It was the only time of year when the Islamic police imposed no restrictions on the girls and boys on the streets. They were out to flatter and flirt. So each year, I would either take my family on a trip away from Tehran or just stay at my mother-in-law’s, which was located in a short dead-end street, making it an unpopular choice for processions. I continued to work hard and to live my life in the best way I could, but eventually my dissatisfaction and curiosity got the better of me and I decided to give in to the strong urge inside me to migrate. I had never before considered immigrating to another place because I loved my own country and wanted to go on inhaling its air, climbing its mountains, exploring its land, enjoying its music and literature, and doing my bit for its betterment. But the seed had grown to a shoot and things now were different; I wanted to change the course of my life. Among my family, I wasn’t the only one filled with a longing to emigrate to another country. Hamid, my older brother had already moved to Australia with his family, which made it an appealing destination. When I sent him a letter enquiring about the possibility of emigrating to Australia, he embraced the idea and advised me to start the application process at once. So in July 1995 I filled out the initial application forms and posted them to the Australian Immigration Office for assessment. A few months before applying for immigration, I had been introduced to a new colleague at work, Dr Gooya. He was in his late fifties with fair skin and gray sideburns, rather tall and

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bulky. He had been employed to develop a new business system for the expansion of the company. As luck would have it, I was asked to share my room with him, which allowed me to chat with him every day. First impressions convinced me he was an intellectual with a wealth of knowledge about business and the Western world. ‘Where did you learn English so well?’ I asked when he was reading Time magazine. ‘I lived in America for twelve years — long enough to learn the native language.’ He grinned, gesturing towards his magazine. ‘Do you know other languages?’ I asked, fishing for more information. ‘Yes, I know French and German too. I lived in France and Austria for several years.’ ‘Wow! That’s fantastic.’ I was astonished to hear about his ability to speak three other languages, not to mention the good fortune to live in three different countries and learn about their cultures and people. In addition to working for our company, he was also writing articles for some prestigious highbrow magazines. I read one in which he compared Iran with South Korea, before and after the revolution. It was incredibly insightful and thought provoking. His knowledge, experience and friendliness allowed me to open up to him about my interest in emigrating to Australia. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you can always come back if you don’t like living there. You’ve already been successful here, so if you decide to return one day, you will certainly know how to find your place again.’ He rubbed his eyes like a sleepy child. ‘After twenty-seven years, I’m happy to be back and to share what I’ve learned with others.’ ‘If I knew what to expect,’ I said, ‘I think it would put my mind at rest. I’m scared that I may have to come back anyway, with

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nothing but a big financial loss plus a delay in my professional growth here. Did you feel the same way when you decided to leave Iran?’ ‘In my day, we were more carefree. The Shah’s regime was on good terms with the Western world and travelling to Europe or America wasn’t a big deal then. Besides, I wasn’t married, and travelling for a single man is ten times easier than for a family man.’ He fished his car keys out of his pocket. ‘No, I didn’t have much fear. I didn’t even think too much about it. Nowadays, it is quite different though. Sorry, I’ve gotta dash.’ Like the wise sage in so many quest narratives, he appeared briefly from time to time to point me in the right direction. I envied him his wealth of knowledge, experience and his language skills. He was the best possible model for me, I decided. Knowing that migration wouldn’t have to be a oneway ticket and I could change my mind and return one day depending on my circumstances, made the idea of emigrating less intimidating. Dr Gooya never told me what to do but his enviable life experience did. I wanted to do the same and enrich my life by travelling and learning about new cultures. After almost four months, I received a letter from the Department of Immigration and Multicultural and Indigenous Affairs (DIMIA) about the procedure I had to go through with my application. I could provide them with all the documents they had asked for but the IELTS exam (International English Language Testing System) sounded like a big hurdle. They had also asked for my qualifications to be assessed and approved by the Institute of Engineers Australia (IEA). At the time I was so snowed under with work that I couldn’t dedicate any time to my application, and the process was put on hold for a few months. How could I concentrate on an uncertain future when I had real and pressing tasks on hand right then? The application has to

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wait! I told myself. Susan was at first non-committal about emigration and was more concerned about her work and personal life in Iran. Nevertheless, she gradually became more interested in moving to Australia. I was in charge of coordinating the design and construction of a white cement factory in the south of Iran, which was proving to be quite demanding. The main machinery was to be supplied by a German company, but the remaining accessories and equipment were to be supplied by domestic manufacturers. The many structures in the cement factory were also to be designed by an Iranian engineering firm. My lack of experience in this field was immensely irritating, though I was a master in hiding it from others. It took me months of study and research to make sense of the technical aspects of the project. I still can’t believe they handed me such a daunting responsibility. After a few months, when the construction began to gain momentum on site, I had time to think about emigrating once more. I spread the forms on the dining table at home and started filling them out, making a list of all the supporting documents they required. To pass the IELTS exam, I needed to set aside several hours every week to improve my writing, reading, listening and speaking. This wasn’t easy so I decided to start with half an hour a day. My aim was to prepare myself for the test within four or five months. A month after submitting my documents, I received a letter from the Institute of Engineers that quenched all my passion for the move to Australia: they hadn’t recognised my degree. My university had been established relatively recently, and was therefore unknown to the Institute of Engineers. There was only one way to enable them to recognise my degree: sitting for the Structural Engineering exam, which took place once

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a year. The exam contained almost all the fundamental and advanced design subjects I had passed in university. There was also an extra heavy subject I hadn’t studied during my course. The next exam was in six months and it looked like I had enough time to prepare myself. Nevertheless, there were a couple of issues I had to address. Working in construction meant that my theoretical knowledge was rusty, which immediately made me concerned about my ability to pass the comprehensive exam. Besides, my increasingly successful professional life gave me pause — the whole notion of migration seemed less appealing. Why should I sacrifice my bright prospects here in the hope of a better life in Australia when I’m not even sure about it? I wondered. I needed a massive motivation to drive me through the IELTS and Engineering exams successfully. Once again, I confided in Dr Gooya. ‘That’s unfortunate!’ he said when he heard my degree hadn’t been recognised by IEA, ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do now?’ ‘I have a genuine desire to emigrate, but frankly I’m not sure if I’m up to this Engineering exam. Allocating so much time to ready myself for the exam is in itself a big obstacle.’ I sighed. ‘I’m not very keen to compromise my thriving career for the hope of a better life somewhere else.’ ‘Look, what would climbing the ladder of success here give you? A big house, a couple of investment properties, a high-profile position, great social status?’ He paused. ‘Is this a fair prediction of your future here?’ I nodded, waiting to hear the point he was going to make. ‘It’s like geometry; three known dimensions: width, length and height. When Einstein came up with the theory of relativity, it was very difficult for people to comprehend. You need to understand the concept of the fourth dimension, time.

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Without comprehending the fourth dimension, the theory of relativity would continue to be a mystery to you.’ He started drawing a cube on his notepad. My brain immediately went to work on his analogy. Immigration is like exploring the unknown dimension. Is it essential? Does is enrich my life? Will I succeed? Only time will tell. I stared at his drawing, vainly trying to figure out the invisible dimension. ‘You’re so comfortable in your own country with its language, traditions, culture, religion, political systems and climate. To emigrate, you’ve got to break free from the gravity of the status quo.’ He sighed, apparently finding it hard to convert his thoughts into words. ‘You discover the fourth dimension when there are Christians or Hindus living in your block of units, when you find your opposite number at work is a guy from Africa or China, when your favourite dish is no longer Persian but Thai or Italian.’ He ran his hand through his grey hair and started hatching the sides of the cube he had drawn. ‘The fourth dimension is where you discover that humanity is beyond religion, culture, language or the colour of your skin.’ I gradually began to understand the profound point he was trying to make. His remarks brought to mind how Islam considered the people of other faiths as outcasts, how the Jews claimed that they were the only chosen people of God, or similarly how Christianity asserted the only way to God was through Jesus. This reminded me of how virginity was an essential criterion for every girl who wanted to get married in Iran, while girls in the West had already gained sexual freedom and deemed it their legitimate right. It reminded me that what I watched on Iranian TV was in sharp contrast to what was presented on satellite television. Living in an Islamic country had unavoidably created a huge gulf between us and the people of

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the West. I found myself reminiscing about Christina and her world behind the iron curtain before the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989. The disparity was enormous. ‘You’re right, under the current system in Iran our vision is limited and there is indeed a world out there worth exploring, but the journey to reach it appears to be quite hard for me with obstacles like the Engineering exam,’ I confessed, feeling frustrated. ‘Yes, the entire process is tough and demanding.’ He paused. ‘Even after getting their permanent residency, many people give up when facing the hardships of settling in a new country and simply go back to their own home country. It all depends on the individuals and how determined they are to complete the process successfully.’

When our company won a large wheat silo project in Turkmenistan, a former state in the Soviet Union, now independent, I was asked to coordinate the design and construction of the project. This was the first international project for our company and I was thrilled to have a key role in it. Consequently, all my interest in migration was overshadowed by my involvement in the gigantic task of getting the design of the project off to a good start. To be able to coordinate the design, I needed to inspect the local facilities in Turkmenistan and therefore my manager sent a request to the administration for a visa application for my business trip and the purchase of my plane ticket. Our intention was to utilise the domestic manufacturers, which would allow them to benefit and also build upon that experience for similar projects in the future. At the same time, we had to organise for the purchase of more advanced machinery from Europe, as the quality was superior to products in Iran.

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One morning, my manager called me to his office. ‘Take a seat. We need to talk about your trip to Turkmenistan,’ he said, gesturing towards the chair near his desk. I had been so busy that I had completely forgotten about it. I was glad that he had been chasing it up. ‘As you know, our firm is sponsored by the government and therefore they influence many decisions we make here.’ He paused, looking sombre. ‘I have received a letter from the ministry rejecting our request to send you to Turkmenistan.’ I was stunned by the news. He gazed at me sympathetically, waiting to hear my reaction, but I was still in shock. ‘It seems to have something to do with your past political activities.’ ‘What do you mean? What does my business trip to Turkmenistan have to do with my past? This is absurd!’ I said, without making any attempt to hide my disappointment. ‘I’ll try my best to resolve this but I wouldn’t get my hopes up,’ he said. In light of the new development, I was expected to carry on in my role as the project coordinator based in Tehran and leave the onsite research and coordination to someone else. I was deeply disheartened because I had been working on the project diligently for months. I felt like a chef who had spent months labouring over a new and wonderful recipe, only to be told that he could never cook it! ‘I guess this goes to show that my prospects in the company aren’t great,’ I said, sharing the news with Dr Gooya a week later. ‘Luckily, you still have another plan on the backburner. Perhaps you should focus seriously on preparing to emigrate,’ he said. ‘I imagine this has removed your doubts.’ He was right. After the initial shock waned, my confusion was gradually replaced by clarity. It became clear to me that I had to get beyond the hurdles of emigration to Australia.

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For me, clarity was vital; it boosted my resolve to overcome challenges and hardships. I had learned a long time ago that I could tolerate uncertainty about an outcome but I couldn’t carry on without knowing exactly what I wanted. I could easily get stressed and distressed if I wasn’t clear about my objectives or about a situation. It was now time to plan for the IELTS and the Engineering exams. I enrolled for both exams as I knew the exam dates would spur my efforts. I decided to dedicate all my spare time to preparing for the IELTS exam, which was to be held in three months’ time. I decided to make good use of the time I spent in Tehran’s heavy traffic and turned my car into an English language lab by listening to dozens of audio cassettes. Amazingly, I didn’t mind the traffic anymore! I also tried to modify my social life so that I could spend more time with those who knew English well. This allowed me to ask questions and practise speaking. I was spending at least two hours a day preparing for the exam, but the IELTS exam didn’t go well. The reading test was too difficult for me and I found the questions too complex and confusing. Right after the exam I knew that I had failed the reading section, so I immediately enrolled for the next available IELTS exam and continued studying with the same intensity. With a stroke of luck in the second test, I managed to get the mark I needed for my immigration application. The next hurdle was much bigger: the Engineering exam. I collected all the textbooks and drafted a tight program to prepare for the exam. My aim was to pass the exam, otherwise I would have to wait a whole year for the next one. I put my social life on hold. My wife and daughter went to parties or gatherings without me. I would have plenty of time to have fun and enjoy parties later on, I decided. The only thing I couldn’t

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put on hold was my job; my responsibilities and workload hadn’t changed. Besides, the money had to keep coming in. Even at the office, I was on the lookout for any opportunity to discuss design issues with other engineers to deepen my comprehension of particular engineering concepts. The secret to solving engineering problems is to know how to break down a very complex problem into smaller parts and solve those parts one by one in order to reach the final answer. This, however, was easier said than done. For three months, I got up at 4 a.m. and studied for at least two hours in the morning before breakfast — for some reason I was able to study more effectively in the quiet hours of the early morning. On the day of the exam, I was hyperventilating and my treacherous heart was beating like a drum played by a psychopathic musician. Why are you like this? You stupid man! Is this your first exam? I berated myself. I pinched myself ruthlessly. I suddenly realised I needed to calm down or I would fail. I took a few deep breaths and continued to breathe deeply until we were given the exam booklet. My inner dialogue didn’t help but my steely tenacity carried me through each step. The morning exam finished and I felt I had done fairly well. My preparation was good enough that I could smoothly solve most of the problems. That boosted my confidence for the afternoon exam. After eight stressful and tiring hours of exams, I left the Australian embassy reasonably confident and satisfied with my performance. After the exam, I tried to bring normality back into my life and I began to make it up to my family by spending more time with them. My daughter was now a delightful toddler, and was happy to have her father’s attention once more. Two months later, the results were out. I had passed with an excellent mark. My efforts paid off.

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‘Well done! Now the rest of the process shouldn’t take too long, right?’ asked Dr Gooya. ‘No, it shouldn’t. The Australian embassy has given me the list of their approved medical doctors for our medical examinations and after that I guess it’s just the final stage: granting my permanent residency,’ I said. There were so many things on my to-do list. First, I had to speak to my manager and resign from my role as engineering manager. He was very positive and supportive and decided that my assistant should replace me within two weeks — he was familiar with our projects, which made for a smooth transition. My manager also agreed that I could continue in my role in the Turkmenistan project until I left the company. In the meantime, he appointed one of the engineers to work by my side for a couple of months to gradually take over my responsibilities. I had very uneasy feelings about handing my responsibilities over to others. I had worked so hard to achieve my standing in the company and now I was suddenly giving them up for an adventure. When I got home that evening, I picked up the illustrated book about Australia and stared at the pictures of stunning scenery and beautiful beaches, daydreaming about the amazing land that was going to be our new home. I pored over photographs of the Harbour Bridge, the Opera House, and the Botanical Gardens, very impressed by their exquisite design. One thing I liked about Australia was its physical distance from the rest of the world, and the idea of being protected from wars, conflicts and chaos in the rest of the world. I read about the culture and customs Australians had inherited from their British ancestors. Above all, I was longing to live in a democratic country where people could express their political views freely. To me,

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freedom was like a breath of fresh air, like clean water. After flicking through the pages of the book, I suddenly felt excited, even reborn. By focusing on the positive aspects of the move to Australia, I realised that my unproductive and gloomy feelings were starting to fade. So I bought two more books and kept reading about Australia’s history, the friendly people, the laidback lifestyle and the political structure. I found it hilarious that former Prime Ministers, Bob Hawke was in the Guinness Book of Records because he had successfully drunk a yardglass of beer in 11 seconds in 1954. I felt an embryonic sense of attachment to that land already forming within me. The knowledge that my residence in Iran wasn’t going to last much longer made me acutely observant of my surroundings: the heavy traffic, air pollution, the crowds, the rush, and the anxiety that was so pervasive. To get some of my documents certified, I had to go through various government departments where the bureaucracy slowed the process immensely. I could see that the Islamic regime had severely damaged the system and our culture. Duplicity was an integral characteristic of everyone in the government departments; they all needed to fit in to stay employed. Do they ask themselves whether they deserve better than this? I wondered. Perhaps this was what the regime wanted: to keep people preoccupied with their basic needs, floundering in a sea of problems generated by an ailing system. The regime could only survive if people had no time or energy to think of an alternative. Simultaneously, they had cleverly smothered all opposition voices; no opposition meant no threat to their power. How many more years will it take for this nation to one day enjoy the taste of real freedom and prosperity? I wondered. A month after our medical examinations were done, in August 1997, I received the final letter from DIMIA advising

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me that permanent residency had been granted and we could now obtain our visas from the Australian embassy in Tehran. At last, after two years, our efforts to fulfil the requirements of the skilled migration program had borne fruit. I was overjoyed and immediately shared the good news with Susan. There was only one problem: we didn’t have enough cash for the journey. My efforts to sell our property in a very sluggish market had failed. Finally, we decided to borrow some money with interest until our property could be sold. I booked our flights for the end of September so that we would have ample time to prepare. Another challenge was how to break the news to my family. They all knew that my application was being processed but no one knew that our departure was imminent. I had a good relationship with my family — we often went out with them on picnics on the weekend, played badminton, football, cards or backgammon. In particular I loved spending time with my nephews and nieces. They were still fresh and free, unburdened by the limitations of the adult world. ‘It’s unlikely that we will go out to parks on Fridays after you leave,’ one of my nephews said in a rather miserable tone. My heart sank. Our connection was beyond that of uncle and nephew; it was a genuine friendship. I found it harder to part with my nephews than my nieces, because of the unique relationship that existed between us. ‘You can now take over from me. I pass the baton to you,’ I said jokingly to cheer him up. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. There are commonly both push and pull forces with migration, but that wasn’t quite the case for me: I was experiencing pull and pull forces. It was like being stuck between two carts pulling you in opposite directions. I wasn’t going to see my family every week, nor even every month; this was a bitter fact.

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Despite a heavy heart due to our looming separation, I was very excited about living and working in Sydney. Susan didn’t seem quite so enthusiastic, but she was deeply pleased with our move. By reading a little bit about Australia every night, I kept myself motivated and focused on our new home. Oddly, I had a phone call from a distant relative who was going to move from a small town in the south of Iran to study at Tehran University. He phoned to discuss finding a job and a suitable place to rent. The excitement in his voice was incredible; I recognised the eagerness I felt at heading for Sydney. I found myself outlining the positives he was going to experience in Tehran. What a paradox! The last week before our departure, we managed to see some of our family and friends to say farewell. On the last day in Tehran, my sister Tajee threw a goodbye party for us and invited our close relatives to her place. It coincided with Soha’s fourth birthday. It was a great time to chat, joke, sing and dance; a memorable night. We had mountains of luggage. We wanted to take everything we needed and everything we loved: our clothes, some books, audio cassettes, and our photo albums. At the airport, we concentrated on checking in our luggage without any mishap, but soon enough it was done, and we were left to face the dreaded moment of parting from our families. It was a difficult moment for Susan, Soha and me. I hadn’t had much sleep over the previous days and was living on adrenaline. I had been running around sorting out certain things prior to our flight, but now, finally, I had the chance to pause and concentrate on my family. My eyes stung with exhaustion and I had a headache, but I looked at the faces of my family to try to record them in my memory. Some were in shock, some seemed indifferent, and some, like my parents, were sad. My sisters were already in tears even before I started hugging them.

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‘How many times are we supposed to come to the airport to see you off? I wonder where you picked up this bad habit?’ Tajee said jokingly. I embraced her and said nothing. I was too emotional to speak. Here I was parting with the people I loved most. They were my rock and my safe harbour; they were the major parts of my history and my memories. We had shared our happiness and sadness for as long as I remembered. Now I was about to embark on a journey that would keep us apart indefinitely. ‘This is totally unfair!’ said Azam as she held me tightly in her arms. My brother-in-law, Hossein, patted me on the back: ‘I’m proud of you and admire your steely willpower. Don’t worry about your parents, we’ll look after them.’ I shook his hand and just gazed into his eyes. I was sure he understood. The last people in the queue were my parents. There are no words to describe their sorrow; the tears in their eyes were heartbreaking. Susan was embracing and kissing her mother, and her uncles and aunts, one by one. Susan’s mum seemed to be the saddest person in the crowd, as she was parting with her only child. The storm of emotions passed over Soha’s head — she could not comprehend the meaning of our departure, and didn’t know what emigration meant. She had just turned four the week before we left. I picked up my hand luggage, gathered up Susan and Soha, and walked towards our departure gate. I didn’t turn around to look back or wave; I was at breaking point. After our plane took off, I gradually relaxed in my seat. I couldn’t believe that I had just left my loved ones behind. I realised I was leaving my homeland, where I had learned to talk, walk and look after myself. All my memories were there, my childhood, my adolescence, my triumphs and struggles. I

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remembered Hanna and her lovely smile. I remembered Darius and his funny jokes. I remembered Saeid G and his selfless friendship. I was leaving them all behind, abandoning my past. I felt my stomach churn and my head throb with pain. I burst into tears and sobbed.

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A couple of hours after take-off I felt rather cold and asked a flight attendant to get me a blanket. Susan and Soha were already asleep, but the chatter in my mind kept me awake until exhaustion overwhelmed me and I slept. Within an hour or two, a disturbing dream woke me with a jolt and I sat bolt upright, panting like a dog. I could feel my heart pounding intensely inside my ribcage. The blanket that had comforted me a short time ago was now confining and suffocating me, trapping me in a prison of cotton and memories. Desperately, I struggled free. Even after so long, Darius’s dead body and the roar of explosions were alive in my head. I was shaken, confused and frightened by the unwelcome images and noises. I got up and tried to fill my lungs with air in order to bring my breathing under control and calmly walked in the aisle to the other end of the plane. ‘What the heck is going on? Calm down!’ I commanded my heart as I pressed the palm of my right hand to my chest. I

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searched for an explanation for the attack but couldn’t find one. Gradually I felt better and settled back into my seat, yet the worries continued to agitate my thoughts. ‘I want some water, Dad.’ Soha’s demand was a blessed interruption that snapped me back into reality. She was wide awake and her questions about the flight and our destination kept my mind focused on our journey. We were to stay one night in Kuala Lumpur and catch another plane to Sydney. As our second flight had been scheduled early the next day, we stayed in the airport hotel. Our next flight was with Ansett, an Australian airline. We were impressed by their polite and respectful treatment of the passengers. They even helped us place our hand luggage in the compartments above our seats. The plane looked immaculate and an improvement on the one that carried us to Malaysia. The difference was obvious. The plane crew spoke clearly, which made it easier to understand them. I felt reassured that out first encounter with Australians was positive — it seemed a good omen. Without my noticing, my mind disengaged from my family in Iran and turned to the new world. Even the quality of the food and drink was better than that on our flight to Malaysia, but perhaps it was merely the intoxicating aroma of freedom that made life taste so sweet. Here I was on the verge of stepping into a developed country. I was excited and looked forward to it all eagerly, yet there was an undercurrent of worry that didn’t allow me to fully enjoy the anticipation. I couldn’t think clearly, and felt as though I was in a haze. Perhaps I had developed a deep suspicion about everything. Was it due to the tumultuous years of the revolution, persecution by the Islamic regime, or the tragedies I witnessed during the dreadful war with Iraq? Perhaps this was something the oppressive regime had cunningly embedded in us through their unrelenting propaganda. They needed enemies: America,

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the Great Satan, and Israel, a confirmed enemy of Muslims. The regime survived on creating an atmosphere of fear, and a constant state of crisis to divert people’s attention from domestic problems and from their basic civil rights. Looking back, my worry habit also had its roots in my childhood and upbringing, and my parents’ uneducated and seemingly random style of parenting. As our plane began to descend towards Sydney, I looked curiously out the window to get a first glimpse of the city that was going to become our home. What struck me most was just how much water surrounded Sydney. There were large glossy bodies of water, dazzling in the early morning sunlight, a stunningly magnificent setting. It was a perfect combination of blue water, green landscape and colourful rooftops. Awesome! After we got through customs, we carried our luggage towards the exit where my brother Hamid and his family were waiting for us. I hadn’t seen my brother for thirteen years and this reunion in itself was significant. His outfit and style were more Westernised than I remembered. My sister-in-law looked unchanged. She was tall and rather slim with straight black hair that complemented her bright olive skin. I knew well that dealing with her was a dance in which I had to tread carefully, even though I didn’t fully understand the steps. My nephew was in his first year of university and seemed to be very sharp and intelligent. He was taller than me, with a bigger build. My niece was about fifteen years old and treated us pleasantly. She couldn’t speak much Persian, and her accent and pronunciation were funny and appealing. While I was assessing my relatives in the airport hall, my attention was caught by a couple kissing for longer than usual nearby. I felt a bit embarrassed by this open display of passion, which one would never see in public in Iran.

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During our drive to my brother’s house, I was trying to get a glimpse of Sydney, but he kept interrupting me by asking about our parents and siblings. The roads seemed similar to those in Iran but I found drivers’ respect for rules and each other far superior to that in Iran. Cars kept to their own lanes without rushing to overtake or change lanes. This all seemed entirely normal, but I needed time to get used to it. There was, however, one incident that surprised me. A Toyota sedan suddenly cut into our lane right in front of my brother’s car. My young nephew began shouting profanities at the driver, and as my brother drew alongside the offending Toyota driver, my nephew angrily gave the young offender the finger. I was stunned by both the rage and the gesture. In Iran, it was common to use the thumb as an insult; in Australia it was the middle finger. Later on I discovered that in the West thumbs up is as a positive gesture. At night, after dinner, we sat in the lounge room and watched a movie on TV. There were several violent scenes that made me cringe. I had never enjoyed watching violent movies and wasn’t accustomed to them. Back in Iran, even the programs I had followed on satellite TV didn’t have much bloodshed. In the chilly early morning, I went to the nearby oval for my morning exercise. It was a picturesque ground, green and well maintained. There was also a playground for children with a variety of equipment. I was the only person exercising there on that vast and beautiful oval, but I felt that it wasn’t truly alive because there was no one else using it. In Tehran, a small park would be filled with men and women exercising each morning. They would feel on top of the world if they had access to a large and beautiful oval such as the one in Sydney. After breakfast, my brother drove us to a bank in Hornsby to open a new account. One of the staff led us to a small table and provided us with the relevant forms to fill out. When he

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sat down and started to explain the details, I felt he was speaking an incomprehensible dialect. I could identify most of the words but was unable to grasp what he meant. Why doesn’t all the English I learned in Iran help me here? I wondered, feeling disillusioned. Luckily, my brother was there to help interpret and we opened our first bank account in Australia. The encounter with the bank staff undermined my confidence; I found the accent and speed hard to follow. ‘It takes some time to get used to the accent here,’ said Hamid, when I complained about Australian speech. For me, being unable to communicate with others would be worse than losing a limb. I needed to start honing my listening skills. For lunch, my brother took us to the local McDonald’s. For the first time in my life, I had a McChicken meal with Coca-Cola. I still remember the taste of the succulent chicken burger. The fries were my favourite and I could happily have them with Coke for my lunch every day. From then on, McDonald’s became a treat for my family and me. Considering our limited funds, five or six dollars for lunch was beyond our budget. After the revolution in Iran, all the Western food chains like McDonald’s were closed down due to their potential cultural impact on the Islamic nation. After so many years of living in Australia, though my daughter and wife now refuse to have lunch or dinner at McDonald’s, I still try to occasionally treat myself with a burger and fries; I eat them with the same relish with which I enjoyed that first meal in Hornsby over fifteen years ago. I found one aspect of life in Australia quite unsettling: advertising portraying women in bikinis or skimpy dresses on walls, billboards or at the bus stops. I wasn’t used to such exposure and the images automatically captured my attention and made me feel uneasy. I decided I needed to desensitise myself, so when the rest of our party were mesmerised by the

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animals in a pet shop, I disappeared in search of a newsagent. There was a huge variety of magazines containing nude images in one large section. I didn’t want to spend too much money so I found the cheapest one, which turned out to be People magazine. I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t meet the eye of the shop attendant. I carefully hid the magazine in the folder I had from the bank and joined my family. At the first opportunity, I opened the magazine to explore the content. After poring over the images, I started to read the text beside them; it was revolting. Once my curiosity was satisfied, I felt more relaxed about provocative images on TV or in the streets. That three dollars was the only contribution I’ve made to the sex industry and if that is not entirely true, then it must have something to do with the slight amnesia I suffer from at times! Though she had just turned four, Soha was aware of the significant changes in her environment. She was still too young to realise what it meant to travel from Iran to an English-speaking country, but from the first day in Sydney, I started teaching her new words: ball, toy, doll, car … At first she thought it was all part the games we played and didn’t realise that I was preparing her for the biggest challenge in her life so far. Staying at my brother’s place protected her from facing the looming language barrier in the outside world. During the second week in Sydney, we found a day-care centre that was fairly close to my brother’s house. Because of the sweet memories of her day care in Tehran, she didn’t object to the idea of going to this new one. We tried to prepare her by showing her pictures of the playground and the toys in the day-care pamphlet. She still had no idea about the language barrier and we said little about it to keep her interested and confident. When we walked into the day-care centre, the young manager welcomed us warmly. From the very first moment

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of our arrival, Soha clung to her mum apprehensively. There were about fifteen children from babies to children five or six years old. Because it was the first day, we stayed for almost an hour, helping Soha become familiar with the place, although she continued to hold tightly onto Susan. When Soha realised the dreaded moment of parting was approaching, she started crying loudly. She begged us desperately not to leave her behind. She wanted to go back home with us or make us stay there with her. It was one of the most heartbreaking moments in our family life. While Soha was crying and screaming, we left the place with heavy hearts. A few minutes later, Susan began to weep. Instead of leaving her for a full day, we went to pick her up after just two hours. We couldn’t stand it any longer. Before entering the day-care centre, I peeked through the window and saw Soha playing with the babies and toddlers. She wasn’t crying and didn’t look upset. She had cleverly figured out how to survive in this unfamiliar world, opting to stay around the crowd who didn’t need to speak English. She was speaking with them in Persian and using toys to amuse them and they seemed thrilled to be entertained by her. The other older kids were playing together in the playground outside. Soha was ecstatic to see her rescuers and instantly ran to us. She didn’t say much but surrendered happily to the safe and familiar embrace of her mother. From that day on, I seized every opportunity to teach her essential words to make life a little easier for her. After she fell asleep that night, while I was looking in the local newspaper for rental units, I noticed that Soha’s face suddenly changed and she started moaning in her sleep. Obviously, she was having a bad dream and I, instinctively, woke her to interrupt her nightmare. I held her in my arms and patted her until she was calm and fell asleep again. I was shattered to witness her nightmare. Look what I’m putting my family

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through! I thought, holding my head in my hands in distress. Guilt was not an emotion I expected ever to feel for bringing my daughter to a country free from oppression. Nevertheless, there it was. I had never seen Soha having a nightmare before and I could only assume that it was a reaction to her fears of the alien world in which she found herself. I was still puzzled about my own nightmares and witnessing my beloved daughter experiencing similar distress was unbearable. I sat next to her, watching her innocent face, wishing I could stay awake every night to ensure she wouldn’t have another bad dream. The next morning, after a bit of discussion, Susan and I decided we should stay with her at the day care for longer stretches during the first week until she felt more confident and comfortable to stay by herself. ‘Wow! Yesterday you were really clever to play with the toddlers. I’m proud of you, honey,’ Susan said to acknowledge Soha’s way of coping with her lack of English. Soha continued to react with great distress when we were about to leave her at day care during the following week. Surprisingly, on the fifth day, though she was still reluctant to stay there by herself, she didn’t cry and we realised that there had been a breakthrough. She continued to spend time with the toddlers and the day-care manager was quite pleased because she was excellent at entertaining them. My brother was self-employed and worked from a home office as a draftsman, producing a variety of shop drawings for a couple of big companies. My structural engineering background made it easier for me to make sense of his field of work and I started working by his side from the third day I arrived in Sydney. The drafting software and the type of work he did were new to me, so I needed to learn the ropes first. Due to all the issues crammed in my head, I couldn’t focus

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properly and I was slow to learn the new system and acquire new skills. However, I tried as best as I could to be useful and to be worthy of the salary he was going to pay me. During our third week in Sydney, we managed to find an apartment in Hornsby and by the end of the fourth week, we moved to our own place. It was a two-bedroom unit with plenty of space we didn’t know how to fill. We bought the essentials, such as a fridge, TV set and beds, and it was a wonderful feeling to live in a place of our own. I continued to work for my brother, grateful for the opportunity to make money to cover the cost of living in such an expensive city as Sydney. However, the isolation from society was troubling me to the point where I decided I couldn’t go on working that way. I was detached from the real world and had no contact with anyone outside my own home or my brother’s office. I took a couple of days off to search for jobs. With my lack of local experience, unfamiliarity with local standards, and low self-confidence, my chances of finding a job in my own profession were slim. So I didn’t even bother looking for an engineering position. Instead, I found a position as a console operator at a Mobil petrol station through Centrelink. The week after I was offered the job, I thanked my brother and left his office. One of the best moments of my life in Australia was when I discovered the Hornsby library, located behind a row of buildings and shops. I found this amazing place by sheer fluke one day when I was looking for a barber shop. I walked in and was astonished to find the wealth of material inside. I was so excited that I didn’t know where to start — the rows of bookshelves, loads of CDs and DVDs … When I entered the kids section, I could see hundreds of suitable books for Soha. I continued exploring until I found the English as a Second

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Language (ESL) section. There were so many books, videos, audio books and kits for newcomers. I was beside myself with excitement and incredibly happy to have discovered those valuable materials, to quench my thirst for improving my English. When I heard the announcement that the library was about to close, I realised that I had been there for nearly three hours without noticing the passage of time. I took some of the items I wanted to borrow to the desk and asked to join right then but the librarian explained that it was too late that day. I left the library with empty hands, but my heart was full of hope for the coming days and years. On the following day, the first item on my list was to join the library. From that day, my library card took pride of place in the best slot in my wallet. Libraries in Iran didn’t have a fraction of the materials and facilities available in Australia. Some public libraries had been built during the Shah’s rule prior to the revolution, but the Islamic regime had channelled all funds into Islamic literature. There were many shops across Iran selling Islamic books for very low prices in order to encourage people to read them. They invested our people’s wealth in multiplying Islamic bookshops rather than public libraries; in mosques rather than sporting venues; in warfare rather than freeways and public transport; in the Hezbollah in Lebanon and the Assad regime in Syria instead of improving the life of the impoverished in Iran. How mad I get when I remember the totalitarian regime in Iran, and the cost to humanity of their foolish investments. Visiting the library at least once a week to replenish my stock became part of my routine. I started devoting my spare time to bettering my English and reading about Australia — I wanted to find out more about this wonderful land and its history. It was fascinating to realise how a dumping ground for British convicts had gradually become one the best countries on the planet in the space of two centuries.

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I started reading books to Soha every day. This was the best way I could help her learn the language. Susan and I made every sacrifice to ensure Soha would have a smooth beginning in her new country. Our only income was from my job, and after deducting the rent and the cost of basic food, we were just able to conjure the money needed for Soha’s fulltime pre-school fees. We wanted to make sure she would begin to feel at home and enjoy herself. Incredibly, the combination of immersion at the pre-school and the environment we had provided at home enabled Soha to switch to English in our fifth month of living in Australia. After enduring my own battles with the language, I was in awe of — and intensely proud of — my young daughter. Even when my familiarity with this new world had grown, I had an unquenchable desire to learn still more about Australia. For me, it wasn’t enough to just live, work and have a social life in this country; I needed to know about its history, culture, people, political structure and literature. If I have to travel from point A to point B, I generally don’t like to be driven; I want to drive the vehicle myself. I want to be able to use the map and navigate my own way. Similarly, I had a hankering to explore the map of history and culture in Australia. This would have been so much easier for someone who had come from an English-speaking country like Britain, with a shared history, but for me it was doubly difficult because of the language barriers and cultural differences. I had to start from zero, and battle with the basics. Susan still needed to improve her English before she could start working, so I had to do six or seven shifts per week to make ends meet. The pain in my feet and back from standing up for long hours was sometimes agonising but my determination to support my family helped me tolerate it. Nevertheless, I used every opportunity at work to read newspapers as a part of my

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self-education. The articles in the Sydney Morning Herald were often too difficult, but I found the news and features in the Daily Telegraph easy and entertaining. It was laughable to find so many insignificant pieces of news in that paper, yet they made it easy for a novice like me to become familiar with politics and current affairs in Australia. When I felt that my first job was secure and our financial worries were not so pressing, I started looking around for courses that suited my interests. After a discussion with a course advisor at TAFE, I decided to enrol in a tertiary preparation course. ‘You can pick and choose whatever subjects you like, because obviously you’re studying out of interest rather than seeking a certificate,’ the course adviser said. I opted for one English subject, Poetry, and The History of Australia and Multiculturalism. Of all the challenges I faced in integrating into Australian society, improving my English skills was the biggest, and it was even bigger for Susan, who was far behind me in terms of honing her language skills. Learning a second language as an adult when one’s mother tongue is powerfully dominant is difficult. Language is connected to whatever we have learned and experienced in our life from infancy or even before. Although I knew it would be almost impossible to ever speak English as well as I did Persian, I persisted in learning new words and expressions and applying them. Years later, I found interesting facts about the malleable nature of our brain in a book called The Brain that Changes Itself. The author, Dr Norman Doidge, reasons that in order to master a second language, you need to silence the tyranny of the mother tongue and the best way to achieve that is through true immersion. The best way to immerse yourself in Australian English, for example, is to find yourself an Australian spouse. This couldn’t apply to me because I was already married and simply wasn’t prepared to divorce my wife for the sake of mastering

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English! Besides, Iranian women are ruthless when they enter the divorce courts! With this knowledge, I had to accept there was no chance of true immersion for me. Nevertheless, I continued to study using books and audio recording until I gained a command of English. I enjoyed my three subjects at TAFE. It was fascinating to read about the White Australia Policy, the Anzac legend, Indigenous Australians, and the reforms put in place by courageous leaders like Gough Whitlam. I found the story of the Aboriginal people and the fact that they were still struggling to adapt to the changes in their land heartbreaking. I read about the First Fleet, about Captain Cook, and the convicts who have become such an important part of the Australian national identity. It was difficult to comprehend the hardships and desperation those convicts endured during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. They were treated inhumanely for the crimes they had committed, whether it was the almost mythologised theft of a loaf of bread or something more serious. It was a harsh beginning, but perhaps experiencing those unimaginable conditions propelled them to rise and strive for equality, justice and a good life, to forge a world where no one would be treated unjustly or need to steal any more. As a newcomer, I felt an odd connection with those fabled first migrants. I wasn’t a convict and I hadn’t been forced to come here, but like them I had to start from scratch. Unlike them, I could enjoy the support of the Australian government, I was treated with respect and dignity, and I could find a job and start building a good life for my family and myself. I felt indebted to all who had made sacrifices to create this magnificent country. Although my struggle to settle in a new land had just begun, the story of Australia, its formation and its people gave me enormous hope.

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As a newcomer with a family to support, the pressure to find a job loomed over me like a toxic cloud. Our bank balance had diminished alarmingly after we rented a unit and bought the essentials. After a couple of days of job seeking, I discovered that I might find a job through Centrelink. As luck would have it, there was a position available for me at Mobil as a console operator. Honestly, at first I didn’t even know what it meant or what to expect. My biggest problem was my lack of confidence. I felt I was teetering on a precarious ledge, being driven forward by my need to care for my family, and being held back by fear of failure. I had been in this country for only a few weeks and my knowledge of the system, the place and the people was very limited, not to mention my unfamiliarity with the Australian vernacular. Despite all the odds against me, I had to act; it was sink or swim. Although I had to ask the interviewer to repeat half the

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questions to ensure I understood them, the interview turned out to be rather straightforward and my answers must have been satisfactory. The training, however, was much more challenging. Information was delivered three times faster than I could take it in, information about customer service, various types of petrol, fire safety, armed robbery, and so on. Many of the words and terms I was hearing for the first time and didn’t know how to interpret them. Before my brain could process one new word or concept, the trainer was already in the middle of describing the next one. I panicked, unable to keep up with the pace of the presentation. I was doing more sinking and less swimming than I had anticipated, and felt utterly hopeless. At the end of the training, test papers were handed out, and as I skimmed the questions I felt even more miserable. There were several I couldn’t answer, although other applicants were forging through the test. By the time our papers were collected by the trainer, I had lost all hope and was waiting to hear: ‘Thank you for your application but unfortunately you didn’t pass the test and we can’t employ you.’ To my surprise, I was told the name of the place where I was supposed to start work: a Mobil petrol station in the North Shore. I couldn’t believe it. Just as I feared I would sink beneath the surface forever, I had been thrown a line. My heart was singing as bright rays of hope surrounded me. I rushed home to share the good news with Susan. Then came three days of practical training to learn how to operate the console and the pumps. I was taken through the safety measures and the relevant equipment on site. The store manager was a twenty-two-year-old girl of Jordanian heritage, called Mary. She was a pleasant but some of her heated exchanges with suppliers taught me never to mess with her — she could be quite aggressive and sharp-tongued.

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Not surprisingly, as a beginner I always seemed to be handed the worst shifts, in particular night shifts. During the first few night shifts I managed to finish all my duties outside the shop quickly; I didn’t feel secure being outside during the night when I was on my own. Stacking the shelves and fridges wasn’t too time-consuming, which meant I had many spare hours before sunrise. The loud ticking of the clock on the wall reminded me that every minute consisted of sixty seconds and I became all too conscious of it. I’ve never been a night person and staying up all night wasn’t something I handled well. I wouldn’t fall asleep because my senses were acutely aware and I was always on the alert, ready to act, but I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for reading or learning during those precious hours either. Listening to the radio or flicking through gossip magazines was the best my brain could manage. After the third week I put in a request to do only day shifts due to my family commitments, and fortunately my kindhearted manager agreed. During the day shifts, I had to serve customers more frequently and it could get quite frantic during peak hour. Though I had a reasonable understanding of grammar and English in general, I wasn’t able to catch a lot of words people used in their short conversations with me, so I decided to play it safe; anytime I didn’t understand a comment or a funny remark made by a customer, I would just nod, fake a friendly smile and pretend that I found it funny. A few times, customers were asking a question not making a comment, and stood there waiting for my response while I grinned at them. Then I had to ask sheepishly: ‘Sorry, what did you just say?’ From then on, I decided to use my spare time in Mobil to better my English. I kept a notebook handy for jotting down new words and expressions I heard during my shifts. There was a wide variety of chocolates, milk, bread, engine oil, cigarettes and the like

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I had never heard of before and had to memorise. In other words, the job was far more than just learning the language. My first one-hundred-page notebook was full after the first month and the amount of new information was overwhelming. More than half my colleagues appeared to be university students from other countries such as India or Pakistan who were working on a casual basis. There was a young Australian man with a magnetic personality and we hit it off straight away. Simon was a university student who did three shifts every week. He was very keen to correct my errors and teach me new words. By doing the same shifts during the week, I began to recognise the locals and regular customers. Some were always right to the point, paying for their fuel or the goods in the shop and leaving with barely a word. On the other hand, some were inclined to have a short conversation during the transactions and gave me the opportunity to speak and above all to get to know Australian people. Gradually, my conversations with some of them went beyond ‘Hi, how are you?’ or ‘What a beautiful day.’ As I felt more comfortable with them, I began to ask them the meaning or spelling of English words or idioms and they patiently obliged. Some became so supportive of my thirst for knowledge that — upon arriving at the store — they would ask: ‘Any word for me today?’ In my third month of working at Mobil a beautiful young woman walked in on a Friday night at about 9 p.m. and asked, ‘Do you sell lubricants?’ Working in a petrol station and having an engineering background I assumed she was asking for engine oil. ‘Yes, we have different types of oils outside the shop.’ I pointed at the trolleys. ‘No, I don’t mean that kind of oil — a lubricant for … you know …’ she said with a cheeky smile. I was now puzzled

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and lost for words. ‘Lubricant for sex.’ She used her fingers to demonstrate the act. I was stunned and felt very embarrassed by her explicit demonstration. Without a word, I went towards the shelf on which we stocked condoms. For the first time, I identified the small bottles sitting next to them. I brought a bottle to the counter and handed it to her after scanning it. Now that I could study her more closely, I felt she was under the influence of some kind of drug, because she didn’t smell of alcohol. Her outrageous behaviour was another proof that she was on a high and out of control. She then left and joined two young men and another young woman who were waiting for her in an old sedan just in front of the shop. They all seemed to be in their mid twenties. That embarrassing encounter has remained engraved in my memory and I will never forget that girl’s face. As a matter of fact, walking past the contraception shelf in a pharmacy or supermarket automatically reminds me of her face and hand gestures. One thing I wasn’t very familiar with was Western music, as I had always listened to classical Persian music in Iran. A small radio on the counter that was always playing music accompanied me during my first night shift. The absolute midnight silence and long hours led me to trawl the radio waves of Sydney. I couldn’t tolerate very loud music like rock or rap but I enjoyed the pop music played on Mix 106.5. Back in Iran, I had enjoyed classical Persian music because of its authenticity and the meaningful poetry of its lyrics, but after a few months of listening to radio during the long hours of working at Mobil I felt a shift had taken place. I began to enjoy the music and the melodies of some of the songs I heard. As time went by, I learned the ropes at work and became more familiar with my environment. This allowed me to

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gradually feel more relaxed and confident in my dealings with customers, my colleagues and my manager at work. Everything was going swimmingly until a sudden dramatic event startled me. It was a late Thursday evening, well after rush hour, and I was about to call and place the milk order when an old Volvo sedan pulled in and stopped right in front of the door. A big guy in a grey hoodie, his head and most of his face covered, emerged from the passenger seat and marched into the shop. It took me a split second to notice that he had a sword-like knife in his right hand as he approached the counter. He pressed the knife into my back and snapped, ‘Open the till!’ Feeling the sting of the knife on my skin and hearing his harsh raspy voice I was in no doubt that I had to comply otherwise he would be all too happy to press the knife harder … through my skin and ribs. I had been trained how to react and at that moment, honestly, I didn’t care about anything but my own safety; I didn’t contemplate being a hero and fighting the bad guy. As I reached for the till, I tried to keep him calm. ‘OK, OK! I’m opening it.’ He took out all the notes, which amounted to no more than about $150, and then asked for the safe key. ‘I don’t have the safe key, you must know that.’ I tried to reply convincingly but my voice trembled and my breathlessness made it hard to speak. ‘Give me your wallet!’ he ordered. He snatched $70 from my wallet and left without a word. It was only when he was getting back into the car that I dared to look at the driver, who seemed to be a young woman with blonde hair. I was petrified. It took me a few seconds to feel safe enough to press the alarm button located under the console. Within three or four minutes I heard the wailing siren of a police car approaching the petrol station. After asking for information about the car’s make and model, the police immediately transmitted a message about

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the robbers. My manager arrived about fifteen minutes later while the two police officers were collecting more detailed information from me about the robber and the car. It was a distressing experience. I was dealing with other psychological issues at the time, and the robbery was an unwelcome blow to my already fragile emotional state. My manager called for a cab and sent me home. I didn’t say anything to Susan about the hold-up, as I wasn’t sure how she was would handle it. She was facing her own difficulties and stresses. My mind was desperately trying to make sense of the trauma I had experienced. After having a glass of wine with my dinner I was so exhausted that I fell into a blessed asleep for a few hours. On the following day, my manager offered to arrange for counselling, which I mistakenly rejected; I didn’t think I needed it. For a couple of weeks I felt an increased sensitivity to noises and to my surroundings. Luckily, the trauma didn’t linger for too long and I began to feel more secure at work after a couple of months. Looking back, I slowly recovered from the trauma because of the training I had received as well as my calm reaction to the hold-up. I wish we could receive life training before facing the tragedies and accidents we are all bound to face. It was now about six months since Mobil had employed me. To my disappointment, my manger resigned and another young woman took over. Mobil seemed keen to get more women into management roles. ‘This is Gina, who’s going to manage the store from today.’ Jack, our area manager, introduced her to me. We shook hands and my first impressions were positive — she was a goodlooking woman in her early thirties. As a store manager she was required to be present on weekdays, so I got to know her during my three morning shifts.

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She appeared to be quite pleasant as she worked alongside the previous manager before the handover, but the following week things began to change. By the second week I had become used to her berating suppliers over the phone and using harsh tones with staff. Perhaps few of us appreciate something valuable until we lose it. I really missed my previous manager, Mary, and her professional approach to dealing with people and work issues. Jack, our area manager, was in his late thirties and a likable guy. Every time he entered the store, he would approach the counter with a smile for a brief friendly chat with me. Previously, he had inspected the site and the store a couple of times while I was in charge in the evening and I could tell he was impressed: clean shop, fridges and shelves stocked, and great customer service. I guess those inspections had helped me earn his good opinion. Things continued in almost the same way for a couple of months. The other staff were on their guard when dealing with Gina, as she could be unpredictable, but she was more careful in her tone when speaking with me. During one of my evening shifts, Jack walked into the store and, after grabbing a Coke from the fridge, stood by the counter to pay, waiting while I served the other customers. Soon it was only Jack and me in the store. ‘What do you think about managing a store?’ His question took me by surprise. I had intended to find a job in engineering, my own field, and had never considered climbing the Mobil ladder. After eight months of working there, the only thing keeping me in the job was the need to support my family. At the same time, because I was struggling with emotional issues, I thought that any form of constructive distraction might potentially help me refocus my attention, as the demands of my job as a console operator were not very challenging. So

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when Jack suggested the management role, I suddenly felt it was time for me to get out of the mediocrity I was trapped in. ‘That would be great. Do you have anything lined up for me?’ I asked enthusiastically. ‘This is a very busy store and I’m aiming to have an assistant manager here. I thought you might be interested.’ He paused. ‘In fact it was Gina’s idea.’ I saw the offer as an opportunity to broaden my experience and challenge myself. Running a petrol station would expose me to a range of new responsibilities such as managing staff, which I thought I could handle competently. Besides, it would certainly improve my pathetic salary and would also give me more flexible working hours. ‘I’m glad you’re OK with this. I’ll speak with Gina tomorrow and ask her to start training you.’ Next day, Gina called me to her office and asked me to join her three days a week for training. She didn’t seem to be in a very good mood. Unlike her, I felt a surge of energy and hope and couldn’t wait to start the next phase of my new career. She gave me a bunch of invoices to enter into the system through the special software used only at Mobil. For three days, my training was limited to data entry and placing orders. I was getting the impression that the store manager role was repetitive and boring. I didn’t know exactly what would be required of me, but I felt fairly confident I could master it. Though I wasn’t pleased with the quality of my training, what bothered me most was Gina’s temper. I could tell that she had her heart in the right place but unfortunately she had a short fuse. By the end of the second week, I felt confident that I had learned the fundamental concepts and skills necessary to handle the inventory and the paperwork; I was ready to take on my new role as assistant manager. Gina confirmed that I

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could have Thursdays off but I had to work on Saturdays; I was also required to do three morning shifts during the week. With time, I became more productive and effective, until I was doing all the banking, data entry and ordering plus three shifts at the counter. Gina, however, didn’t allow me to get involved with rosters and staff management, as she wanted to continue to control those. When I didn’t have paperwork to do, I took time to check the pumps and stock the shelves inside the store. I also started to build a good relationship with the staff and suppliers. The only person I found difficult to get along with was Gina. One morning when I got to work I found her already in the office moving things around angrily. ‘Good morning!’ I greeted her. ‘Why the hell do you put the invoices in the blue tray?’ ‘The invoices that have not been entered in the computer are kept in the blue tray and the ones already processed will go to the green tray for filing.’ I was shocked by her outburst but tried to defuse the tension with a calm, clear response. ‘This is all too confusing for me. Ever since you’ve been working in the office, I’ve had difficulty locating things. Your stupid filing has completely messed up this office,’ she burst out furiously. I had seen her using such language on others before but had never been subjected to her wrath personally. Her complaints were ludicrous. ‘Why is it that if I do something good without being told, I’m messing up everything, but if you do the same, it’s initiative?’ I muttered sarcastically. ‘If you’ve had a fight with someone else, why are you taking it out on me, Gina?’ I snapped. ‘None of your bloody business! Get out of my office!’ she yelled. At first, I wasn’t sure if I had understood her correctly.

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It took me a few seconds to process what she had just said. I felt a wave of anger rolling over me and in a moment I lost all my patience. ‘Shut up Gina! You don’t own this business. You’re an employee just like me,’ I shouted. I marched out of the store in a rage and sat in the passenger’s seat of my car to compose myself. Looking back, I can see that I overreacted and that I had a victim mentality. Gina was being completely unreasonable, and I knew that she didn’t mean what she said. Her behaviour was mainly the result of her temper and her personal life. That knowledge, however, didn’t immediately calm me down. After fuming in my car for about half an hour, I decided to drive home without saying anything to Gina. I was so furious that I feared I might hurt her. I was feeling volatile, like an open flame near a bowser. Even after walking the streets around our unit block for a while, I was still agitated and unsettled. I felt violated and hurt. She has no right to treat me like that. My mind was racing and my body was in pain; my stomach churned and there was a terrible cramp in my left shoulder. I desperately needed a job to support my family, but it wasn’t in my nature to forfeit my dignity to keep any job. Though I was sure she was dealing with some issues in her life, I didn’t want to pander to her unreasonable behaviour. At the same time, I was tired; I was tired of copping so much stress at work. I was already struggling to cope with my own emotional mess and this work-related stress was stretching my endurance to breaking point. After a restless night, I didn’t feel up to facing her in the morning on Friday and decided to call in sick; it was too stressful. It was best to prepare myself mentally and emotionally before our next encounter at work. On Monday, she was on the phone when I entered the store. I wanted to take it easy and not mention anything about

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what had happened between us the previous week. After the phone call, she appeared calmer and nicer than before, though our conversation was limited to only few a words about the paperwork in the office. This quiet and rather formal relationship continued until she asked me for a chat one day the following month. ‘I’ve been offered a position at Optus and I’ve decided to take it, though it’s totally outside my comfort zone.’ She paused. ‘I’m tired of working in a petrol station and it’s time for me to move on.’ I didn’t know what to say so I just nodded. ‘I’m sorry for the things I said before.’ I felt the sincere regret in her voice and that was enough for me. There was no point in bearing grudges or being on guard anymore. The knowledge that we wouldn’t be working together for much longer changed our attitude towards each other. On the following day, Jack called me and confirmed that Gina was leaving and I was to take the reins. I didn’t know whether to be happy or sad. Sometimes, the baggage that comes with an achievement takes the gloss off it and you’re left with a confusing ambivalence. It was evident that the resignation was the outcome of her situation and lack of interest in working at Mobil, yet mysteriously for weeks I felt that perhaps I had played a role in her quitting. But as time went by, I felt more confident and began to enjoy my management role. After managing the petrol station for six months, I was able to deal with my daily tasks within a few hours and decided to enrol in a management course at TAFE. By attending two or three evening classes, I managed to complete the course in one year and received a certificate. When my new manager, John, realised that almost all stocktakes in our store had been satisfying with minimum variance and I had created a friendly working environment

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at my store, he offered me the responsibility of a second store for a few months. At first I was hesitant, as I had intended to start looking for an engineering position, but I thought better of it and accepted the offer. Though it wouldn’t be a plus on my résumé for an engineering job, I was keen to expand my management experience; it could only teach me new skills and, besides, it would enable me to climb further up Mobil’s ladder. ‘You’ll have an assistant manager in each store, which will make it easier to handle. I’m sure you can do it,’ John assured me. The other store already had an assistant manager, so we just needed one for my own store. It didn’t take long until our head office informed me that an assistant manager had been employed and he would begin his training at my store within a week. It was a sunny morning in June 1999 when I arrived at my dark, windowless office, which was in fact, our storeroom, located right behind the counter. One corner of it had been transformed into a so-called office with a desk, computer, filing cabinet and chair. Regardless of how others thought of it, it was my office and I liked it. I also had a magic box on my desk, consisting of a radio, CD and tape player, and it was an integral part of my working day! That radio was perhaps the best teacher I’ve had since I arrived in Australia. Listening to talkback shows helped me become familiar with the political and social views of Australian people. It took me a couple of years to figure out that, except for the ABC, other stations had their own hidden agenda in running these discussions. I also used the CD player and tape player to listen to the ESL audio texts I borrowed from the library. Susan had begun to learn English more seriously by listening to tapes and memorising new words and phrases. She was also the treasurer in our household and it was

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difficult for her to balance the books on our limited income. Our weekly income was barely enough to pay for rent, Soha’s day care, groceries and other basic needs. It was an ordeal she had to face every day. In order to help with the income, she started working part time in a nursing home. Compared to her role as a midwife back in the hospital in Iran, this looked like a significant demotion. She wasn’t happy. One morning, John introduced me to Jake, who was going to start his training with me. ‘The plan is that Jake will be here for three weeks to do his training. He’s to start work as the manager of one of our stores in Wollongong.’ ‘I see there is a change of plan; I thought this gentleman was supposed to be my assistant manager?’ I was surprised. John explained that due to the sudden resignation of the manager in our Wollongong store, they had to prioritise. I needed an assistant as I was overloaded with the responsibility of running two stores. However, I decided to make the best of the situation and quickly teach him data entry and get him to help me with the loads of paperwork during the three weeks of his training. During our first day together in my office, I asked about him and his past work experience. I was shocked when he revealed he was only thirty-three, as the wrinkles around his eyes and his grey sideburns suggested he was closer to forty. Within an hour I realised he was a pleasant and compassionate man. Jake had come from England with his three kids: two sons, five and six, and his daughter, nine years old. He glowed when he talked about them, in particular about his son’s dream to play soccer at national level. By the end of the first week, we grew more comfortable talking about the country, economy, Mobil, and ourselves. ‘Is your wife working or a full-time mum?’ I asked, punching

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numbers into the computer, assuming my question wouldn’t be an intrusion on his privacy. He didn’t reply and I lifted my head to look at him. He was struggling to maintain his composure and the strain on his face was obvious. I sensed something wasn’t right, so I got up to give him some space. ‘I completely forgot; I have to place the order for confectionery by 11 o’clock.’ After his unusual reaction to my question, I was more wary of discussing our families. However, after we saw a woman with two babies in a double-decker pram, I got excited again. ‘My wife’s a midwife, but for now she’s working in a nursing home. She’s trying to get registered in Australia, though.’ Once again I noticed the expression on Jake’s face change, but this time he opened up. ‘My wife’s no longer with us. She died four years ago. In fact, she committed suicide.’ I froze when I heard the word suicide. It was quite beyond my comprehension — I had never discussed such a tragedy with anyone. ‘I’m really sorry to hear that,’ I managed to say. ‘Now you know why I never mention my wife.’ His voice was lower and more sombre than usual. I was still struggling to process the news about his wife’s suicide. Luckily we were interrupted by a sales rep and I abandoned the conversation, as I had no idea what to say about such a tragedy. Though I had worked with Jake for only for a couple of weeks, I could feel that the devastation in him was profound and he still had difficulty dealing with it. On the following Monday, we went to a local Thai restaurant for lunch. I didn’t want to ask about his wife because I wasn’t sure I could handle the catastrophic details. Nevertheless, he was in the mood to talk. Besides, what was my discomfort compared to his suffering? ‘From the first year of our marriage I discovered my wife had some emotional issues from her childhood, but she

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seemed to be coping well. She never liked to talk about it, so I couldn’t pursue it.’ He paused and gently twisted the fork on his plate. ‘A couple of years before her death, there was a sudden and obvious change in her; she couldn’t sleep and she began throwing tantrums — at least that’s how they seemed to me. With my encouragement she agreed to see a psychologist to sort out her issues, but after one session or two with any psychologist she would find something wrong with them and leave the therapy incomplete.’ I could feel how frustrating it must have been for Jake as well. How much could he help if his wife was are not willing to get help or go through therapy? But from my own experiences of mental disorders, the hardest part can sometimes be having the courage to step back and trust the professional. ‘It was apparent she was deteriorating every day,’ he continued. ‘I decided to get directly involved and found her a credible shrink through my own GP. I made an appointment for her to be seen in two days.’ He now looked terribly tense, as if he was about to cry. ‘The day before the appointment, I received a phone call from my daughter who was crying hysterically: “Come home, Mum has hanged herself!”’ It was hard to fathom how traumatic it must have been for his young daughter, who came home from school to face such a horrific scene. I could also sense that Jake had been through hell after hearing the news. ‘I was shocked — petrified! After dealing with the police and paramedics, I immediately took my children away from our flat and never again let them see the place.’ He held his head in his hands. ‘I kept asking myself, “Why would she do that? Why? What am I supposed to do? Why did she do that? How dare she?”’ I could sense that he hadn’t come to terms with that heartbreaking event. ‘Are you still angry at her?’ I asked. ‘Of course I am. I’m upset and angry because she never

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followed any counselling properly and it resulted in her ending her life. I’m angry because she didn’t consider the heavy consequences on her kids and on me. I’m angry because she wasn’t open and honest with me about her issues.’ He paused, tears welling up in his eyes. ‘And above all, I’m angry because I loved her and each new day breaks my heart a bit more.’ Jake had decided to migrate to Australia and bring his kids to a new environment so that they could have a fresh start. Sometimes moving away from circumstances is easier than changing them, especially when young kids are involved. ‘I want my kids to enjoy their childhood like other kids. Fortunately, they seem to be enjoying their sports and they’re making new friends.’ As a loving father, he had dedicated his life to his kids and their happiness. ‘Jake, how about yourself? Are you getting help?’ ‘From last month I’ve started seeing a psychologist. Perhaps that’s why I managed to speak to you about the unmentionable.’ His gaze was fixed on his glass, and he was clearly still grappling with the consequences of the tragedy life had thrown at him. His sad story affected me powerfully, amplifying the stress of my own emotional issues. Nothing is more empowering than to know someone else has overcome similar adversities; however, the reverse is also true and it is alarming to realise the dire consequences of unresolved emotional trauma. At the very least, it was proof that no one is immune from life’s adversities, regardless of who you are or where you live. It was evident that Jake was determined to bring normality back to his kids’ lives and encourage them to move on from the tragedy. I was sure he would gradually reconcile with the past and forgive his wife. The last news I received from Jake and his family was that his daughter is now studying at the University of Wollongong

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and his two sons are also studying and playing soccer. He remarried in 2005 and his new wife has formed a loving and close relationship with his kids. Despite being crushed by an inconceivable tragedy, Jake didn’t give in. He was determined to create a happy future for his kids and he did. With his steely determination, he got through excruciating circumstances, picked up the pieces and converted a tragedy to a triumph. He didn’t give up. A month after Jake left, a new guy started working as my assistant, which made managing two stores easier. From then on, I seriously began to look for a job in engineering, my own profession. After a few months of sending nearly a thousand résumés to various recruitment agencies and firms, I eventually decided to work part time as a volunteer. Luckily, the generous manager of a consulting firm in St Leonards gave me the opportunity to work and gain some local experience and become familiar with Australian standards. Finally, I found a full-time job as an engineer, which allowed me to hand in my resignation and leave Mobil after two and half years. Some may consider working in a petrol station a low-paid or a low-class job, but for me it was a fantastic beginning in Australia. Mobil was a university for me where I learned English and found out about life in this amazing country. Mobil was a world of friendships where I met new people who are still my close friends to this day, such as Ian, Lisa and Vahid. Mobil was a world of experiences where I learned a new trade, and much about people’s tragedies and triumphs. I also learned more about my own emotional issues, that the impenetrable darkness that seemed to shroud my life at times was often exacerbated by the shadows of those around me who were battling their own particular demons. I am and will always be proud of working as a console

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operator in a Mobil petrol station in the North Shore; it was where I learned valuable lessons about life, which I would never have learned otherwise.

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1 3 . MY AU S SIE FRIEND

Working at Mobil opened a number of doors to real life in Australia. One person I was particularly drawn to was Simon, an experienced console operator. He was in his mid twenties, thin, blond and freckled, with wire-rimmed glasses that completed the image of the stereotypical nerd. Simon was passionate about literature and sometimes spoke like a poet. It was clear that he didn’t simply view the English language as a tool for communication, but as a thing of beauty to be appreciated. After a while, he began to take the liberty of correcting my mistakes during our conversations and each time I thanked him. With all my commitments, I had no time or money to spend on improving my English and therefore I welcomed his help. It didn’t take me long to discover that, despite being warm and pleasant, he seemed to have very few friends and no girlfriend. It looked as if his social life was limited to the petrol station, which I found unusual. After a few months of living in Australia, I had

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come to expect a young man like Simon to have a girlfriend and enjoy going out with his mates. ‘I prefer to spend my time with migrants because I learn so much from them. I find them more appealing — selfless, and hardworking,’ he said. ‘How about girls? Do they interest you?’ I asked, without realising this might be considered intrusive, or that he might perhaps be too sensitive to answer such questions. ‘Look, let me tell you a little about the dos and don’ts in our culture,’ he suggested with a laugh. He then went on to explain the fine line I should not cross when talking to new people I meet in Australia. I was a bit put out and felt embarrassed by his blunt criticism, but I gave a forced smile and kept quiet. ‘Why did you decide to come to Australia?’ He changed the subject instead of replying to my question. I explained to him that my prime motive for emigrating wasn’t economic or political but a desire to explore the world outside Iran and, in particular, find out about life in a developed country. Looking back, I’m proud of not imposing myself on this country, given I was not a refugee fleeing death or torture like many others. I went through the skilled-migration process and earned my permanent residency based on my education and qualifications; a kind of quid pro quo deal. Back in Iran, there were a couple of million Afghan refugees who had fled their war-torn country looking for a safe place to live and work. The influx of refugees had adversely affected the economy and social order in our country and frankly I didn’t want that to happen to Australia. ‘I know you like spending time with migrants, but with the current high intake, have you ever been concerned that the country will be swamped by us?’ I asked Simon. ‘Not really. Our government has established a specific

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quota for skilled migrants based on shortages in certain fields. Also there is a fixed number for refugees. It’s unlikely that any government in Australia will open the gates and allow in too many migrants, even though the government here sucks at planning for the future.’ He smiled. ‘However, I’d like to see more emphasis put on learning English. Time and time again, I’ve come across migrants who stick to their own communities and culture so exclusively that they still follow a simple discussion with difficulty, even after twenty or thirty years of living in Australia.’ After only a short time living in Sydney I was able to grasp the importance of what he said. Language was essential in bridging cultural differences and uniting people of various ethnic backgrounds as a nation. Later on, when visiting some suburbs in Sydney, it became apparent to me that certain ethnic groups persisted in living within their own culture and speaking their own language, refusing to genuinely integrate. I had a closer encounter with some Muslims at my work. Some Lebanese families lived nearby and frequently bought cigarettes, milk and bread in the shop. This allowed me to get to know them and sometimes to have a short conversation. They seemed to have been among the refugees escaping the horrifying wars in the 1970s and 80s. The parents had only a basic knowledge of English. Their children were fluent, with an unmistakeable Arabic accent. It also seemed to me that they were mainly involved in hard jobs like labouring or landscaping or panelbeating, which produced only humble incomes. I was wary of talking with the Lebanese women but from my discussions with the guys in that neighbourhood, I felt that most of them were rather detached from society. They watched the satellite Arabic channels and practised

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their own religion and customs at home. In other words, their kids were experiencing life in two different countries: Lebanon at home, and Australia outside home. ‘It must be very confusing for their kids — where do they belong? I wonder how they mix with their schoolfriends?’ I said to Simon. ‘You’re right; geographically they live in Australia but culturally they are still in Lebanon. It’s a shame really that Sydney feels so segregated, especially when I visit shopping centres in suburbs like Auburn. Perhaps this is the main reason behind the formation of new political parties like One Nation,’ he replied. I was still a newcomer and didn’t have enough knowledge to judge the social makeup in Australia but could tell his view on the subject was well informed. Spending time with him helped me to gradually lose my inhibitions about expressing myself among others. My friendship with Simon improved and despite my language limitations, we had profound discussions about a raft of subjects. I was fascinated by his vast knowledge of music, computers, English literature and, it seemed, the universe at large. ‘Imagine this is the Sun,’ he said, positioning a basketball on the bench, ‘and this green pea is the Earth,’ he moved it away from the basketball by more than seven metres. ‘This is the kind of proportion you can think of.’ I could sense a surge of energy in his voice as he was describing the solar system. It was more than just a demonstration; it was like injecting a good dose of curiosity into my veins. Instinctively, I wanted to know more about it. ‘Have you watched Star Trek?’ he paused, ‘How about Star Wars? I have their complete set of video cassettes at home. I’ve got to bring them all for you to watch.’ He was very keen to make me familiar with them.

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Music, however, seemed to be the art closest to his heart. He had studied music at school as an elective subject. ‘I’m still thinking of pursuing music professionally one day. And I will.’ In particular, he loved African and Arabic music. He could listen to a piece once and instantly start playing it on his guitar. Often he brought his guitar with him when he came to my home and played a variety of songs to educate me about Western music. He could also play piano very skilfully. Unlike him, I knew virtually nothing about music. Living in an Islamic country had left me ignorant about art in general. Music could potentially be the source of sin and had to be treated very carefully. It was deemed reprehensible if music tempted people to dance or act improperly. How was it possible to mix Islamic ideology with music? All the songs on TV and radio in Iran were selected by the clergy, ‘experts’ in this field, in order to prevent sin! Luckily, in my recent trip to Iran in 2013, it was evident that reason had prevailed and those preposterous ideas have faded over time and now music is treated with esteem. Small steps, but nevertheless, progress. Simon also had firm views on social matters, and one of his favourite topics, as I’ve said, was migrants. ‘They call people like you wogs,’ he said, referring to mainstream Australians, ‘because you don’t have the same skin colour and come from a less advantaged place.’ His remarks reminded me of an unpleasant experience I’d had in Hornsby train station late one night on my way home. The guy looked drunk but he could easily see that I was coming back from work as I was in my Mobil uniform. He accused me of stealing his job and insulted me. I couldn’t understand most of what he said but it was obvious from his facial expressions and tone that it was hateful.

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‘If migrants like you relied on social security, you would be branded as unproductive, inferior and unworthy. On the other hand, if you get work, you are regarded as a threat to locals getting jobs. So either way my friend, you are screwed.’ I gradually began to form the opinion that Simon was a bit cynical about the Australian community. His views were starting to damage my feelings, too. He apparently lacked a sense of belonging and closeness to mainstream Australians. I could feel that there was a great deal of resentment and injury in his heart and mind. It wasn’t long before he felt comfortable enough with me to share his past. He had been living alone after finishing his secondary education in a Christian boarding school. He had been sexually abused by one of the staff members a few times and this trauma had left some serious psychological scars. I found it sad to know that, even in a wonderful country like Australia, people still had to deal with such evil deeds. Later on, by following the news, it became apparent to me that physical, mental and sexual abuse in Christian boarding schools and children’s homes had a long history and that it had always been covered up by the powerful church leaders to prevent lawsuits and defamation. It seemed that the clergy in Iran was not the only one capable of perverting the course of justice. ‘I wanted to leave his room but he didn’t let me go. He was much stronger than me.’ Simon muttered, clenching his fists. ‘Couldn’t you complain to the school principal and stop his abuse?’ I asked, enraged by this heinous act. ‘He threatened me, and I was too young to know my rights or how to stop him.’ His voice was quivering. ‘I had very little self-confidence and was too afraid. I still can’t stop blaming myself for my weakness.’ It was obvious that he was hurt and his past injuries had profoundly influenced his views on the

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church, Australia, people and his parents. He seemed to despise his father for failing in his duty of care, neglecting his family, and for not being there when he needed him. His father had left when Simon was only seven. ‘Now he wants to reconnect with me, but I can’t help giving him the finger. I don’t need him. I don’t want him in my life,’ he muttered. His mother was still in touch with him and Simon had come to like his stepfather, even though their visits were infrequent. Despite her own financial difficulties, she still supported him when he was desperate. It was clear why Simon viewed all the grey areas as flaws in the Bible, Christianity and the Catholic Church. He could talk and elaborate on them for hours, for days. Furthermore, he had lost his faith in the political system in Australia. He branded all politicians as hypocrites and self-seeking bastards. As my closeness with him grew, I began to care about him like a younger brother and invited him to my place regularly. My family also liked him; he was funny, knowledgeable, cultured, and above all a decent person. He was very kind and caring to Soha and Susan and always joined us at the drop of a hat when I offered it. He relished the family atmosphere. As someone who had been forced by life to be careful with money, I couldn’t come to terms with Simon’s lack of financial management. He was utterly incapable of balancing his income and his expenses. He was in the red throughout the year and seemed to have developed a mental block about it. I didn’t have the courage to openly question him about this, but tried to explain a couple of times how Susan and I were managing our expenses with the limited income we had, though I wasn’t sure if he could relate to my example. ‘Why don’t you go back to university and finish your course?’ His accounting course had been left incomplete for a couple of years now and I wanted to encourage him to return to his

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studies. I couldn’t bear to see a clever guy like him waste his life in a petrol station instead of working as a professional accountant on a good salary. A couple of months later, Simon resumed his accounting course at university and sounded eager to finish the remaining subjects and graduate within a couple of years. He still continued to work at the Mobil petrol station part time, but due to his new circumstances, our meetings and conversations were limited to weekends, provided we were both available. One day he began to talk about his new Muslim classmates. This didn’t surprise me as Simon liked to mingle with people from different ethnic groups, but gradually some of his comments and discoveries began to concern me. ‘I went to the mosque last Friday with Ziad and found it intriguing. He got me a copy of Koran in English and I want to read it. Did you know that Islam denounced slavery from the very beginning while it is considered as a natural condition in the Bible?’ Unfortunately, Simon had the impression that I would be delighted to know all about his new Muslim friends owing to my background. I couldn’t blame him because I hadn’t discussed my views on religion with him. He had no idea how adversely I had been affected by Islamic rule in Iran. Looking back, at the time I was rather prejudiced against people who practised Islam and I often felt inclined to avoid them. I had some Persian friends with Muslim backgrounds but I knew they weren’t practising. It was just like a label for them. One Saturday he brought along Ziad to the petrol station during my shift. Ziad seemed to be in his early twenties and was originally from Egypt. He had been only five years old when his parents moved to Australia. He had a short black beard and moustache. His long sleeves in the warm summer weather indicated that he was abiding by certain Islamic rules. He was a university student, working for his father who owned

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a courier business. Ziad was a zealous Muslim, attending mosque for regular prayers and religious programs and following in his parents’ footsteps. He appeared very polite and had a pleasant smile. I greeted him warmly but couldn’t have much of a conversation with him because it was a busy time with customers filling up or buying from the shop. However, I could observe their closeness and the influence he seemed to have on Simon. During later get-togethers, Simon kept talking about what he’d discovered in the Koran and sharing with me his thoughts and reflections. I merely listened and refused to comment or discuss religion with him. I didn’t want to disappoint him with my views; our friendship was too dear to me. However, I was startled when he confided in me that he had decided to convert to Islam. He also wanted to change his name and surname to suit his new faith. The next time I met him, he was wearing a small white cap, which was common among Muslim men in some Arab countries. He confirmed that he had converted to Islam and revealed his new name. I congratulated him without showing much enthusiasm about his new identity. At that moment he realised I wasn’t thrilled about his conversion and a new atmosphere settled over our friendship. I couldn’t believe a bright person like him would adopt beliefs that were so radically opposed to his scientific way of thinking. He was able to understand the complexities of the cosmos through reason and evidence; he was capable of dissecting a piece of music to individual notes; but when it came to adopting a new set of beliefs, he was uncritical. Why? What was going on? Somehow, I felt that this was his way of protesting against the church, against Western culture, and against his own society ‘You all betrayed me,’ I could imagine him raging in the long dark hours. He wanted to distance

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himself from them, to show that he wasn’t a typical Caucasian with Christian beliefs. I knew Islam inside out and recognised how misguided Simon was about some fundamental principles, but I didn’t allow myself to challenge him. Beneath his fiery and confident facade, he was a fragile and injured young man. I could tell that he wanted to move on from his past and was trying to build a new platform for his life and his future. I wasn’t in a position to question his approach and I didn’t believe my views would change his mind. Due to his university commitments and his new Muslim friends, Simon and I met less often, and we didn’t have the same discussions that had first brought us together as friends. He wasn’t the same person who had befriended me a year before. On top of that, he moved to a suburb far away from the North Shore and consequently quit Mobil. However, in our rare catch-ups he was still very keen to share information about his discoveries and the new people he had met. I only listened. Simon was smart enough to figure out what that meant and that he no longer had the same place in my life. After so many years, I still blame myself for not telling him about why I withdrew from our friendship. I never told him about my views on Islamic rules or beliefs. I never told him about the serious psychological issues I was dealing with at the time. Like him I had been hurt, like him I’d been betrayed, and like him I was suffering. I was too confused and fragile to maintain our friendship any longer; I had to move on — we had to move on — from it. I’ve kept the books and CDs he bought me. He taught me so many things and so many new English words such as incredible; he was incredible. He is ingrained in my memory; hearing or using any one of those words still triggers a memory of his kind face and voice. I still remember his hearty laughter,

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his funny jokes, his passionate recitals of English poems, and his memorable music. He was my first Aussie friend and I liked him very much and still do.

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14 . EMERGING FROM THE SHADOWS

The relationships I developed during those first few months in Australia were vital and enduring, but it was my relationship with myself and my own inner demons that caused me the most trouble. That relationship went catastrophically sour one evening, and it was all the more devastating for being so unexpected. I got back home from work around 11 p.m. one night. Susan and Soha were fast asleep in their beds and the light in the living area had been left on for me. Every week I had three evening shifts, which meant missing dinnertime with my family. Susan had to go to her English class early the next day so she couldn’t wait up for me. I checked on both of them and then turned on the TV. While heating up my dinner in the kitchen, I reviewed the events of the day. It was an uneventful day, preparing and taking Soha to pre-school in the morning, studying English a little, watching TV and then off to work. My shift

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had also been reasonably quiet as my manager had the day off and consequently work hadn’t been too frantic. Overall, I was calmer and more relaxed than I had been for a long time. I put my plate on the coffee table and started having my dinner as I watched the late news on Channel Ten. After flicking through other channels, I left it on SBS while I fetched myself a glass of water from the kitchen. I liked watching movies with subtitles because it helped me learn common conversational words and expressions in other languages. It was a French movie about the Second World War, portraying fierce fighting between French and German ground forces. It zoomed in on two French soldiers in a trench shooting at the enemy. One of them had black hair and eyes, and was trying to make light of the situation by saying funny things about the enemy soldiers’ girlfriends. These two close friends fought side by side until their trench was hit by artillery fire. The funny guy was killed instantly and the other was left unconscious for a few minutes. As he rose up from the ruins of the trench, he was shattered to find his friend dead. He held the dead body in his arms and wept. The dead soldier reminded me of Darius, with his amazing wit and humour. I thought fleetingly of those terrible days, but forced myself to push the memories away. Those days are far behind me, I remember telling myself. I turned off the TV, lit up a cigarette and sat on the balcony. It was my time, a time of solitude, and my quiet space to reflect on life. I had allowed myself the luxury of smoking one cigarette every night when Soha was asleep. The images from the movie were quite evocative and began to awaken deeply buried feelings. Once more I tried to play down the significance of the thoughts and feelings. I had learned in the past that I shouldn’t dwell on them and had become a master at pushing them out

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of my head. So after I finished my cigarette, I lay in my bed and finally, feeling exhausted, rolled over and went to sleep. But my subconscious, unprepared to leave it there, haunted my night with a disturbing dream about Darius. We were walking in George Street, discussing the current situation in Iran and the lack of adequate pressure from the international community on the Islamic regime, complaining that the world wasn’t doing enough about the violation of human rights in Iran. Just as our discussion was becoming increasingly heated and emotional, the council garbage bin on the pavement near us exploded with the fury of Mount Vesuvius and we were both thrown into the air. I was severely injured but I managed to stagger back to my feet and look for Darius. I found him lying in front of a shop. He was dead. I moaned, ‘No, no, no. Oh God!’ The dream was so powerful I woke up with my heart pounding, breathing very heavily. It had seemed so real that it took me a few seconds to realise it had, without a doubt, been a dream. I got out of bed and drank a full glass of water. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and around my neck. My breathing settled down but my heartbeat was so intense I began to feel a sharp pain in my chest. Not knowing what to do or what to expect, worry strangled me. In normal circumstances, I would simply go to a doctor for a check-up but now I knew it was all related to that awful dream. Besides, it was 2 a.m. and I didn’t have a car to drive to the nearby hospital. I turned on the light in the living area, sat up and began consciously monitoring my rapid heartbeat. It felt like an uncontrollable palpitation. After a seeming eternity, it calmed down a little and I went back to my bed, but was unable to sleep that night. I left my bed tired and completely bewildered. What’s happening to me? I asked myself. It was one of the worst nights in my entire life

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and I didn’t have the stomach to even think about it. I just wanted to leave it behind and focus on the day. After taking a shower and having my breakfast with Soha, I felt slightly better. Having Soha in my life was a blessing — a bright flower in a dull field. She could distract me from anything else in the world because she was the most important thing in my life. It’s always good to live for something more precious than self. Though self matters and should be given a high place, it can also become a trap and bring us down. When putting Soha’s breakfast on the table, I was happy to forget about myself and that miserable night. I fervently wished I would never again have to deal with such a dream. After dropping Soha off at pre-school, I went back home to rest for a bit, but thoughts of the night before were too intrusive and despite my efforts they filled my head again; the war and the explosions, Darius’s dead body, and the blood — rivers of it, flooding the landscape of my tortured imagination. I didn’t seem to have any power or control over my thoughts. I didn’t like them, I didn’t want them but the more I tried, the more forceful they became. ‘What is this dreadful thing?’ I whispered, holding my head in my hands. I couldn’t stand being alone and decided to go to the shopping centre, which was within walking distance. I had always managed to resolve my issues in my own quiet private space, in solitude. But now, shaken by the tumult of my feelings, I had to get out and join the crowd and immerse myself in the hustle of the shopping centre. I had no idea it was going to be the beginning of a complicated journey of pain, suffering, selfdiscovery and recovery. Though I was tired, I managed to get through my shift with my manager looming over me, asking me to carry boxes of drinks to refill the fridges. I was relieved when my shift was over and I could go home. I made a decision not to watch the late movies

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on SBS anymore and instead stuck to the news on Channel Ten. I needed a deep sleep after the ordeal of the night before, so I took a sleeping tablet and then lay in my bed, exhausted. My chest pain was a bit better but was still a concern. In the morning, after a solid sleep, I felt better. Unfortunately, the unwelcome thoughts appeared again while I was taking a shower. I wished I could have stayed asleep for longer. I wished I could have had a longer break from the disturbing thoughts and feelings that were following me like my own shadow. I wished I could delete that part of my memory by pressing a delete button, like deleting a file on my computer. I didn’t know who had created the sleeping tablets but I was deeply grateful for them. They had been a lifesaver for me and had helped me maintain my sanity during some unbearable times in the past. It is impossible to appreciate the sheer pleasure of deep untroubled sleep unless you have experienced the all-consuming focus of a brain turned constantly inwards. I was also aware of the possibility of becoming addicted to the sleeping tablets and tried not to take them more than three nights in a row. By mid morning, I once again found myself overwhelmed and trapped by my dreaded thoughts. I feared them so much that I was prepared to do anything to get rid of them. The thoughts made my heart race uncontrollably and pain gripped my chest like an ever-tightening vice. I was scared and didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to share this with Susan because she was already struggling with adjusting in the new environment and was very fragile. I just couldn’t risk it. I suddenly felt so tired and lost, like a lonely trekker lost in the bush. The stress of the past few months, starting a new life in a foreign land, and now the weight of my unbearable thoughts and feelings from the past were pulling me down. I found myself sitting alone in my bedroom feeling hopeless and helpless. For the

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first time in Australia the dam of my emotions burst and a torrent of tears streamed out. I don’t remember how long I cried but I was terribly sad and disheartened. I was lost in a maze, not knowing how to find my way back to the person I used to be. I decided to go and see a doctor in the nearby medical centre. I didn’t tell her anything about my mental state and only complained about my chest pain. The examination and electrocardiogram detected no abnormality, indicating that I was okay. I had been so concerned about my heart that the welcome news was a boost. However, she suggested I should go on holiday for a few days and relax. I started reading a book I had bought for fifty cents from a garage sale, The Power of Positive Thinking by Vincent Peale. I was going to read this purely to improve my English by underlining useful words and expressions. I couldn’t underline library books. However, after a while I had a feeling this book could also help me rectify my thoughts. I had studied for sixteen years at school and university, learning how to read, write, calculate, and design buildings but I had never studied about myself. In retrospect, I had very little knowledge about my body, moods, thoughts, and instincts. Perhaps my ignorance was partly responsible for my floundering miserably in the sea of bewilderment. I had learned that physical fitness was essential, so being active and having regular exercise had become an inseparable part of my life. In contrast, I had never pondered the need for improving my personality and habits. I could carry the heaviest suitcase filled with clothes but I was now struggling to handle the emotional baggage left from my unorthodox past. I had never worked on me; my head had been completely in the clouds. Although I didn’t know exactly what ‘positive thinking’ meant, by reading the first couple of chapters, I began to

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feel calmer and this encouraged me to read the whole book. Being a Christian-based self-help book, it attempted to teach the reader how to achieve peace and happiness by applying the right attitude and relying on God. For some reason the material in the book was like medicine for my agitated state. At the time, I didn’t have a clue that self-help was a growing industry and I could find many books in the library about it. This was the only book I knew and I clung to it like a life raft because it was helping me stay afloat in a sea of trouble. Did my problems disappear? Did it help me make sense of my terrible mental and emotional state? Definitely not. One Saturday morning, we heard someone buzzing our unit. I couldn’t recognise them on the intercom so I walked down to the front door. ‘We are Jehovah’s Witnesses and would like to take a minute of your time, if we may.’ A woman and a man dressed very neatly handed me a small magazine titled Awake!. I was very impressed by their manner and on an impulse decided to invite them inside. I still had difficulty conversing in English with native speakers so I tried to listen to them carefully to understand what they were trying to convey. Susan caught me in the kitchen. ‘Why did you bring them in? They are going to preach their religion,’ she protested. ‘I want to know what they believe in. One of the main reasons we’ve come here is to explore and learn about the unknown, so come and sit at the table and see what they have to offer,’ I replied emphatically. Harry and Barbara seemed to be in their fifties with fair skin and golden hair. Within a few minutes I could safely say they were among the nicest people I had come to know in Australia to that date. I decided to meet them again to learn more about Jehovah’s Witnesses and, as a result, set a time for the following weekend. In addition to learning about their religion, I was keen to find out about those two angelic

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human beings, about their backgrounds, education, jobs and families. Ever since we had come to Sydney, our relationships had been limited to my brother and few friends. It was now time to look to expand our friendship group. I also thought that extending our social life would help me get out of the tangle of my upsetting thoughts and feelings. I was excited about the chance of knowing people who were outside the Persian community. When I told Harry that I didn’t have a computer or internet at home, he said it was an essential means of communication and offered to set it up for me after I purchased one. I took this as a blessing — a good friend stepping into my life. In our first two or three discussions about their religion, they highlighted the flaws in the world and explained that there would be no hope of prospering in a corrupt world. This negative view of the world resonated with my miserable mental state. It also encouraged me to share with them the horrible consequences of the war between Iran and Iraq, because of the inherent evil that pervaded the two corrupt governments. They invited me to their Sunday service and I willingly accepted. They called the gathering place Kingdom Hall. Everyone was in formal attire, which reminded me of weddings or funerals. I easily stood out among them in my casual outfit. Like a magnet, I attracted many of them, who came to me with pleasant words and welcomed me. I felt both important and embarrassed being approached by all those wonderful strangers. I was really pleased to be among them. During the service, I inferred that they considered dedication, loyalty and preaching the words of Jehovah imperative. I was, however, a bit taken aback when I noticed the emphasis on the impending doom of the world, which was being ruled by Satan. Why do they see the world as all doom and gloom? I wondered. I continued my weekly discussions with Harry and

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his wife but decided the meetings in the Kingdom Hall could be left for some other time. Though my mind was engaged more with the outside world around me, a terrible beast was lurking beneath the surface of my thoughts. One night I was hit for the second time by a terrifying nightmare and I woke up sweating, in a panic. My heart was racing so fast that I was worried it would burst at any moment. From that night I became very conscious of my heartbeat and started to monitor it to ensure it wouldn’t get any worse. This was a very consuming task and gradually became a form of obsession for me. It didn’t take long until I found giving my full attention to certain activities very difficult because of my obsessive inward focus on my heartbeat and palpitations. It is difficult to perceive the outside world when looking through a microscope, but I couldn’t pull my eyes away. I could feel my mental health was deteriorating daily and I wasn’t getting enough sleep. Above all, I was terrified of the flashbacks and nightmares about the tragedies I witnessed during the war, including Darius’s death. They were pushing me over the edge and it looked like I was on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown. It was all too much to bear and I couldn’t take it any longer. I looked up the names of a couple of psychologists in the Yellow Pages and phoned to find out about their fees and availability. Given my limited funds, I chose the one with the lowest fee whose practice wasn’t too far from my home. We were halfway through our session when the psychologist climbed up on his soapbox and started criticising the Islamic regime and the super powers who were orchestrating such wars. At the end, I left his office with no intention of going back because I didn’t feel he made any effort to examine my mental state. So, I called the second one who was rather a

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young psychologist based in the city. During the hour-long consultation he asked only two questions and made one final comment at the end. ‘My fee is one hundred dollars an hour and I need to see you for a couple more sessions to be able to understand the underlying issues. What do you think about next Tuesday at 4 p.m.?’ I was very disappointed with him and felt he was more focused on his consultation fee than identifying my psychological disorder. Those two so-called therapists didn’t give me anything in return for my precious dollars, but I felt that the very act of sharing my agonising situation with someone else was at least a temporary relief. Once again I took refuge in the library. Vincent Peale’s book led me to explore the library for similar material in the selfhelp field. I found a couple of books by Anthony Robbins and learned about beliefs, values, goal setting, and the power of my thoughts. Unconsciously, my mind was linking everything I read to my palpitations and chest pain, which automatically agitated me and made me more obsessed with them. It was frustrating; I was trying my utmost to resolve my issues but my reward was more heartbreak and bewilderment. I was dealing with an unidentifiable monster within me over which I seemed to have no influence. It was after another terrible flashback and panic attack that I went to the hospital emergency ward at midnight for a check-up. I was terribly worried about my heart, which was beating double time in my throat and I couldn’t seem to gain any control over it. I felt incapacitated and completely despondent. After going through all the tests, I was sent to the heart specialist, and once again the test results indicated that there was no heart problem, apart from a minor skipped heartbeat and slightly abnormal electrocardiograph reading, but nothing clinically significant. Once again, the outcome was a relief.

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However, as a side effect of the rapid heartbeat and intense muscle spasms, the pain in my chest and left shoulder lingered for days and weeks. I had been terribly afraid of flashbacks and memories but now I was more fearful of a heart attack or some kind of permanent injury. A sense of terror and impending doom crept over me. I was now completely obsessed with my heartbeat and this inward focus had shifted my attention away from the world around me. I was too aware of my bodily sensations and terribly afraid of them. I had become unbelievably sensitive to the noise of heavy vehicles, thunderstorms, and violence in the movies. I stopped watching movies that had been rated M or MA because I didn’t want to be startled by violent scenes. I avoided arguments with people at work or my family at home. Running and swimming were also no longer possible. I was avoiding anything that would potentially cause an increased heartbeat. It felt as though I was stranded atop the ice in the middle of a frozen pond, unwilling to take a step in any direction for fear of cracking the ice. It was a vicious cycle; once I noticed that my heartbeat was a bit fast, I would begin to fear it getting worse. Then my heart would beat even faster, which resulted in me being more frightened of a looming heart attack. My life was being spoiled by my sensitised body and its acute reaction to my fearful thoughts, and the constant anxiety was depleting my store of emotional energy. I was afraid, I was exhausted, I was lonely, I was sinking. I was at work one day when a young woman walked in. Her left arm was too short and her fingers were deformed. I could tell it was something genetic and obviously a permanent disability. After paying for petrol, she gave me a pleasant smile and left. I looked at her arm and her cheerful face and

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I honestly envied her. I wished I could give my left arm in exchange for happiness. One weekend, Soha and Susan kept pestering me until we all got on a train to Darling Harbour in order to see the Latin American Festival, Fiesta. Just as the train was crossing the Harbour Bridge, I caught a glimpse of the harbour and Opera House. It was as if it was the first time I’d noticed they existed. I was living in one of the most stunning cities in the world, but I couldn’t appreciate and enjoy its splendour. I was like a rich man not knowing how to spend his money, or a gardener who couldn’t smell the scent of the dazzling flowers in his own backyard. Darling Harbour was packed with people of diverse background and colour. There were shows and entertaining performances at every corner. While waiting for Susan to buy an ice-cream for Soha, I heard a deafening shriek from the loud speaker right behind me. It pierced my ears and jangled my nerves. I was terribly startled and bolted to the other corner. My heart was pounding and I was gasping for breath. I sat down on the edge of a planter box to compose myself. Automatically, I became concerned about my heart, which was beating fast and hard. ‘What happened? You look pale,’ Susan asked when she found me. ‘Nothing. I think I’m a bit dehydrated.’ I still couldn’t share this with her. The burden was mine to bear. ‘I’ll be back in a second,’ I said and walked towards the public toilets. I was breathing with difficulty, overwhelmed by the fear that my heart would burst. I just wanted to get away from the noise and the crowd for a bit. After washing my face and drinking from the tap, I began to feel calmer and started slowly walking towards Susan who was watching Soha playing in the playground. Perhaps she knew something was troubling

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me but was patient enough to give me time to share it with her when I was ready. She was still dealing with her own challenges — learning the language and becoming registered as a midwife. Not being able to interact with people or work in her own profession had undermined her self-confidence enormously. Any time we happened to be in the company of native speakers in a public place like a playground, Susan would find an excuse to disappear. ‘I don’t understand what they say.’ That was her response when I asked the reason for avoiding people. It took her a long time until she felt confident enough to strike up a conversation with Australians. My meetings with Harry and Barbara were becoming increasingly confusing, too. I couldn’t digest a lot of claims in the Bible about the influence of Satan or demons. ‘Wasn’t Satan God’s own creation? Couldn’t he simply get rid of Satan once he started sabotaging his creation?’ I asked Harry. ‘Isn’t God considered to be our father? Wouldn’t you expect a father to protect his children and keep them safe from any form of danger or harm?’ Harry started explaining his viewpoint on the subject but I wasn’t listening. My mind was racing to frame another question about Satan. ‘God created this world and you are telling me that the almighty God couldn’t stop one of his own angels — Satan — from corrupting it?’ I asked, feeling frustrated ‘And now the only remedy is that the world must be destroyed?’ I was completely out of line and didn’t notice I was offending them. Harry and Barbara realised that I wasn’t in my best mood and offered to meet me another time. After they left I became aware of how inconsiderate I had been about their beliefs. I should have spoken more tactfully but I was terribly confused about myself, my mental state, and the whole concept of creation and Satan.

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In the evening I went to the library to borrow a couple of storybooks for Soha. By sheer fluke I saw an audio cassette called The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. The intriguing title prompted me to borrow it. The voice of the author, Stephen Covey, was so magnetic and powerful that I was mesmerised from the moment I heard it. When he briefly told the story of Viktor Frankl, a Jewish psychiatrist, and his tormenting experience in the Nazi death camps, I was deeply touched. It struck a chord with me; I was also a captive, a prisoner of my own thoughts and feelings. It’s not easy at first to accept that we can choose our response regardless of what the stimulus may be. I also wanted to enjoy freedom regardless of what my circumstances were, but I needed to recognise the difference between being reactive and proactive. The audio was only the summary of the book, which encouraged me to read the entire book. I found reading the first chapters very profound and enlightening. In particular, the first habit: Be proactive. The concepts of determinism, reactivity, proactivity, stimulus and response, and the freedom to choose gave me a clearer perception of the world around me. I read, reread and devoured every chapter, every page and every concept. I was insatiably hungry for knowledge. ‘I am response-able, I have the freedom to choose,’ I kept whispering. This was contrary to what I had lived and experienced over the past months. It may not be easy for you to comprehend how unbearable it is when your nerves and senses are completely beyond your control. All I knew was that the control of my life had been taken away from me by a mysterious demon that had hurt my spirit. Now this book was claiming that I had the power to choose my response, that, like Viktor Frankl, I could cultivate my embryonic freedom through a series of mental and emotional disciplines until I took complete charge of my life.

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I also bought and read Viktor Frankl’s memoir Man’s Search for Meaning, which was about his experiences as an inmate in Auschwitz concentration camp during the Second World War. It was breathtaking. I was filled with admiration for him, for his incredible courage and for his indescribable self-awareness, which allowed him to rise above his unbearable captivity. I wanted to know more about him and to apply his principles in my own life. I wanted to take charge of my life. I wanted to be a free man. I didn’t have anybody to talk to about my troubles, so I started writing a journal every morning and sometimes at night. My mental state was like a shuffled puzzle and I had to put the pieces together to get the right picture. I kept rereading those two magnificent books, meditating and writing every day. My symptoms improved slightly but they continued to torment me. Palpitations and chest pain kept me company every day and everywhere. They were waiting to greet me every morning and were at my bedside before I fell sleep every night. Fear had become the most dominant driving force in my life; fear of being out of control, fear of heart attack, fear of certain situations, fear of never recovering, and fear of dying. I even feared fear, and myself, and what I might do to escape my situation. I found myself growing wary of sharp objects and high ledges. Despite my pathetic emotional state, my working conditions were gradually improving and I could get any shift I wanted. One day I had a very busy shift and for hours customers inundated the shop. When life returned to normal, I suddenly noticed that my symptoms had been absent for nearly four hours. That was an amazing respite. As a result, I spoke to my manager and asked to do the shifts I knew were the busiest. I found the presence of the symptoms more tiring than working intensely in the shop.

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My way forward was like crawling uphill, but it was apparent to me that I was making progress. The new discoveries I made in Covey and Frankl’s books helped me work on some fundamentals I had ignored in the preceding years. I was so fascinated by Covey’s philosophy that I borrowed and read his other books and listened to almost every audio he had released. The more I learned the more confused I became, but the concepts by themselves were gradually creating a new equilibrium in my head. Keeping a journal had become a healing habit because I could express my thoughts and feelings freely. My journal was my imaginary friend who listened to me without any questions or demands for explanation, a good friend indeed. Harry and I continued to meet almost every fortnight. My respect for Stephen Covey, who was a practising Christian, made me give Christianity the benefit of the doubt and I tried to enter our conversations without any form of prejudice. ‘So you mean that God killed the first-born children in Egypt in order to force the Egyptians to release the Israelites?’ I asked Harry. I always found this account far-fetched. ‘You mean a capable and powerful God couldn’t come up with a fair and sensible solution instead of killing the innocent first-born children?’ ‘We wouldn’t comprehend his reason behind this but I trust he would look after those kids in his own way in heaven,’ he replied. I couldn’t believe that he was using such groundless excuses to dodge my questions. Why has he abandoned his common sense? I wondered. ‘Couldn’t God simply lock up all the Egyptians in their homes at the same time and make an opportunity for the Israelites to escape?’ I asked, without receiving an answer. It was difficult for me to buy into the notion that God favoured only the Israelites. As a non-Jew, that sounded to me like a form of discrimination. Despite such

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futile conversations, I kept on seeing Harry regularly because he was genuine and selfless. Ever since I’ve arrived in Australia, I’ve been friends with people of different faiths, particularly Christians. Despite my earnest efforts, I’ve failed to find my common sense in complete harmony with religious beliefs. The basic principles underpinning Christianity and many other religions, such as love, forgiveness and service, resonate strongly with me. But my logical mind cannot help but spot flaws and weaknesses in the scriptures themselves. Despite my own views, my daughter is a practising Christian. Soha has been involved in church activities and even contributes by leading youth groups. I have always respected and supported her in what she believes. I have several friends who are Christians and I thoroughly enjoy their company and cherish their friendship. This evidently signifies the maturity of our civilisation where people of different beliefs can live peacefully and closely. In one other area Soha and I differed markedly. A few years after I arrived in Australia, I enrolled my daughter in piano lessons. I wanted to see my own dreams fulfilled through her, and to provide her with the opportunity I hadn’t had. I wanted her to appreciate and enjoy music at a deeper level — I knew too well how essential it was for her to start from a young age and allow her brain to form the connections through which she could genuinely make and understand music. I also encouraged her to join her school choir. After a year, she began to show some reluctance when it was time to practise on the large electronic keyboard I had bought her. It seemed to be too arduous a task. My first clue should have been when she began spending more time washing the dishes than playing music! But I guess our hopes and desires blind us all at times. I decided to buy her a piano in an attempt to spark her interest in practising her scales. I was thrilled to

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see how excited she was about the new instrument and how it prompted her to practise. A few months later, she suddenly quit the choir. I didn’t know what was going on in her head. I conferred with her piano teacher to see what else we could do to keep her interested. Based on her teacher’s advice, I took her to a few musical movies and plays in the hope of a change in her attitude, but to no avail. She enjoyed the shows but her attitude to making music herself didn’t change. Despite her poor progress in learning piano, I decided to encourage her to continue her lessons. She managed to practise mechanically only to please me, which made it even more painful for me. The sad irony was distressing to me; I loved the instrument when I was younger but didn’t have the opportunity to learn. She had the instrument and all the support, but didn’t show an ounce of interest in learning to play. How could I blame her? She hadn’t asked for it and in fact it had been only my wish for her to learn piano; I wanted to bring music back into my life through her. Still, I didn’t give up. I was still hoping for a shift in her attitude so I encouraged her to continue. Finally, one day she worked up the courage to announce she didn’t want to carry on with her lessons. Not fulfilling my dream through my daughter made me think of starting piano lessons myself, but my work commitments at the time dissuaded me. Perhaps now I can manage to allocate time for piano, but frankly it’s not among my priorities any more. I don’t have the same burning desire to play. The main thing is that my love for piano has never faded and the desire that one day I’ll start playing this magical instrument is still alive in me. I never cease to be amazed by the impact music has upon people. While driving to work in the mornings, I can’t help noticing the passersby on the footpath with their ever-present

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white earphones, listening to their favourite music. Each one seems to be in a different world depending on the type of music they listen to; their posture, facial expression and the way they walk can tell me which world music has taken them to. It may be cloudy or rainy, but the music in their ears can create a sunny day. With the power of music, we can always carry our own weather.

One Friday evening when I was checking on the health section in the library, a book found its way into my hand. After reading the first few paragraphs it drew me to itself and compelled me to sit down and read page after page. The book had been written by Dr Claire Weekes, who described my symptoms so perfectly that I felt she was using me as a case study. At last I had found someone who could understand me! It was astounding. I borrowed the book and continued reading it through the night until I literally couldn’t keep my eyes open. This was a breakthrough. ‘Now I understand; I’ve been suffering from an anxiety disorder and over-sensitisation,’ I said aloud, gazing at the book cover. Though full of rather complex concepts, I found the book so easy to read. It was as though Dr Weekes was in my room having a conversation with me. Her voice in my ears and her teaching was like pouring water on the fire. I finished the book in two days and was already feeling better. Knowledge by itself is liberating. I bought a copy of the book — Self Help for Your Nerves — from Angus & Robertson and began reading it for the second time. Like a student studying for a sink-or-swim exam, I highlighted and underlined the important points on every page. My nerves, which had been hurt and burnt by the fire of anxiety for so long, could now immerse themselves in the fountain of knowledge that this book provided. My search on the internet extracted limited information

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about this extraordinary Australian doctor. She had passed away in 1990 after a very fruitful career. Her method of treating anxiety disorders was so highly regarded that she was appointed MBE in 1978, and some claim she was also been nominated for a Nobel Prize for medicine, which gave me confidence in her teachings. I wished she was around so that I could meet her, bow down and kiss her hand for penning such valuable words of wisdom. Later on, I found out that her deep understanding of anxiety disorders had been due to her own personal experience of panic attacks during her years of studying in university. Initially it wasn’t easy to grasp her method of treatment: facing, accepting, floating and letting time pass. But I persisted and worked at understanding her writing line by line, point by point and chapter by chapter. I was on my own and wanted to get it all right. It was easier to understand and apply the first two steps but that wasn’t the case for the other two. Understanding them was much easier than applying them and this repeatedly made me feel frustrated and I even began to doubt them. It was like narrowly escaping a shipwreck in a storm at sea without being a good swimmer. She was expecting me to float towards the land without worrying about the savage waves and the wild downpour. She wanted me to allow the waves to carry me rather than swimming against them. She wanted me to stay calm and to keep my focus on the land without fearing for my life. She was asking me to keep swimming without burning myself out and insisting that the key to reaching the land was to eliminate the fear factor. Then I was expected to be patient and keep swimming. ‘Floating’ and ‘letting time pass’ were terribly difficult for me when dealing with my over-sensitised nerves. But I wasn’t ready to surrender and so I started a new daily routine. The first thing I did every morning was to

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write in my journal and commit myself to taking a step forward on that day. I kept reading and internalising the key points in Dr Weekes’ method day after day until I knew them by heart. Finally, one evening when I noticed my increased heartbeat, instead of sitting down and allowing my heart to calm down, I kept walking towards the shops. As usual all my focus was shifted to my heartbeat and it was incredibly hard to concentrate on anything else. Fear appeared with its familiar voice inside my head and automatically intensified my heartbeat, but this time I kept walking, despite the cacophony of noise: the voice in my head and my screaming nerves. ‘OK, kill me if you want but I’m not listening to you anymore,’ I muttered. ‘I’d prefer to die once rather than being tortured every day.’ I kept walking and surprisingly something magic happened; my heartbeat returned to a normal rhythm. I couldn’t believe it. I was ecstatic and wanted to sing, wanted to dance. I felt the spring breeze caressing my face and carrying the scent of flowers into my nostrils and then into my lungs. I felt reborn, as though I had just discovered the way to happiness. I wanted to tell the world: ‘Hey people, I did it, I made it.’ On the way back home, ridiculous as it sounds, I skipped along the street and smiled at all the passersby who probably thought I was deranged. When I got home I went straight to my bedroom and started writing in my journal. She was right, Dr Claire Weekes was absolutely right. Now it was time for the next step, which was putting myself in certain situations in that would trigger my symptoms. This meant I was going to deliberately carry myself into hell’s fire with the assumption that I would come out safely. Even thinking about it made all my body cells shiver with a combination of trepidation and anticipation, but I was determined to get through every single upsetting situation.

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After the first experiment I felt a shift had taken place in my mood and attitude. The next day, for the first time in months, I woke up in my bed without regretting coming back to the real world. Previously, I had dreaded the rapid heartbeat and chest pain that accompanied my return to consciousness. This would happen almost every morning, which would automatically trigger the fear cycle. My first success in applying Dr Weekes’ method encouraged me to borrow a few more books in this field and read them. Reading about anxiety disorders and developing an insight into our biological make-up, as well as our perceptions and thoughts, helped me put things in a better perspective. I learned that the human body is a marvellous machine that continuously maintains and protects itself without us even being conscious of it. We automatically cough the food out if it has gone down the wrong pipe. Antibodies are automatically generated in our bodies to smother germs when we catch an illness. When I learned that the fear reaction is another kind of protection for our survival, things began to make sense. I could now understand the nature of anxiety disorders and their relationship with a trauma or sometimes with misconceptions. Armed with this knowledge, I decided to repeat my first fruitful experiment to consolidate what I had achieved. That required tremendous resolve and courage. This time I triggered my symptoms first and then started walking towards the shops. It was agonisingly awful but once again I made it. The two successful experiments gave me the confidence I needed to move on, less distracted by my symptoms. I began to observe my neighbourhood, the numerous traffic lights on my way to work, the flowers in the local park and the affection an old woman lavished on her dog. A week passed without my feeling too anxious about my symptoms. I’m so much better now I thought and rejoiced in my

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accomplishment. After reaching a level of comfort and stability, I got on with my life and didn’t need to go through the remaining experiments recommended in Dr Weekes’ book. I felt I was now ready for a change of job, too. Managing two petrol stations wasn’t giving me the satisfaction I needed to grow and excel further in the business. I still wanted to return to my own profession, so I started looking for an available engineering position. Over the following four months I submitted my résumé to numerous recruitment agencies and businesses for any relevant vacancy I found in the newspapers — nearly a thousand applications. It was evident that my lack of local design experience reduced my chances of success in most of them.

After discovering I was getting nowhere by only sending applications, I opened the Yellow Pages and created a list of consulting engineering firms in the North Shore plus their contact details. I decided to offer myself for voluntary work for one or two days a week. The first day of phone calls brought only one reply: ‘No, thank you.’ I kept calling until one day a nice secretary transferred me to her manager. At first he sounded dubious about my proposition, but then he suddenly offered me an interview. This was how I started my first job at a consulting firm. After two months he offered me a part-time position and not long after that, I was employed full time. It was obvious that I was facing a big challenge learning the necessary codes and design methods. Developing a mentality for design after years of working in the field of construction wasn’t easy. I kept studying the design handbooks and the Australian standards but my progress was slow. I needed more time, but I knew this wouldn’t be acceptable to my manager. He had already noticed that I was out of my depth in some design

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work and was struggling to handle what I had undertaken. It was a very tough time for me; I had rent to pay and a family to look after. I was paranoid about losing my job and the dire consequences that would follow. One night I turned on the TV and started watching a movie that seemed to be a love story set in the forties. It suddenly changed to a graphic war scene with a torrent of artillery fire resulting in many soldiers being killed. After a few minutes of watching the movie, I noticed that my palpitations were back along with breathlessness and severe chest pain. A wave of panic came over me and I had intense feelings of terror. I turned off the TV and tried to calm myself by breathing deeply and drinking a glass of water. I didn’t know how to interpret this attack. ‘I thought I had overcome this,’ I whispered. From that night, my symptoms returned and I felt I was back at square one. All my hopes went out the window in a flash. I was already in distress over the challenges at work and could certainly do without my symptoms. My disorder was affecting my concentration and accuracy at work. I started re-reading Dr Weekes’ book and applying its treatment methodology but this time my extra worries about losing my job intensified and complicated my disturbing emotions. Once again, this was pushing me over the edge. I felt I was about to disintegrate. I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore. I was sick of hiding it from others; I was sick of bottling it up. I was tired of overthinking and analysing it. I was tired of worrying about it. I just couldn’t carry that baggage by myself any longer. I decided to seek help, someone to spare me from distress and from self-doubt. But this time I was going to find the right psychologist through the right channel. I searched the internet for a reliable source of information about anxiety disorders. One of the staff members at Anxiety Treatment Australia recommended a psychologist with an unusual name:

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Dr Rocco Crino. Without hesitation, I called and made an appointment for the first available time. While I was relieved that I could share my burden with someone else, I was also worried about meeting a psychologist similar to the ones I had met previously. This in itself was a fear I couldn’t handle well. I had no intention of wasting my time and therefore I wrote down all the issues I had and sorted them into a certain order to deliver to the psychologist. I decided to give it a go; I just knew I had to try. I was taken aback when I saw the state of his office.The waiting room was too small with old chairs and a small coffee table. The curtain wasn’t clean and was in rather bad condition. The clutter on the reception desk, without a receptionist, had its own story to tell. Overall, my first impression wasn’t favourable. The door to the consultation room swung open and Dr Crino stepped out to see his patient to the door. He didn’t have the conventional appearance of a doctor during consultations: he was wearing a navy shirt, jeans and a pair of sneakers. But there was a friendly look in his big eyes as he reached out to shake hands with me. There was something about his voice that grabbed me straight away; it was authoritative, warm and mature, as if it encapsulated decades of wisdom and insight. ‘Tell me why you’re here,’ he said after the initial exchange of greetings. I started talking about the horrible days and nights during the war and in particular Darius’s death. Then I gave him a snapshot of what I had been through since I had entered Australia. From the start I noticed he was different from the previous two therapists I had seen before; he was making notes of the main elements of my description on one sheet of A4 paper in a peculiar order. It looked like he was sorting them to determine the variables of a formula. Simultaneously, he

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interrupted me several times to ask probing questions and to solicit the information I hadn’t considered important. At the end of the brief account of my ordeal, which took nearly an hour, he leaned back in his chair. I was all ears. ‘My diagnosis of your disorder is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or PTSD,’ he said. ‘Given your understanding of anxiety disorders from the books you have read, we should be able to make good progress.’ He gave me a booklet containing some detailed information about anxiety plus a few forms to be filled out for our next session. Even though we had run out of time, he continued to briefly explain to me about PTSD and when I wanted to pay for our first session, he said he would send me an invoice. ‘Doctor, I have to pay here, and only in cash. I still need to keep this from my wife for some time,’ I said with embarrassment. I could tell he was a bit suspicious about this secrecy but I didn’t have time to explain it to him. ‘Pay me next time then.’ His trust in me revealed his kind character. He definitely was different from those other psychologists. His assessment of my disorder, warm and friendly manner and his generosity impressed me. It was an amazing feeling to have a confidant who could help me through my hardships. It was like being lost in the wood for a long time, hungry, tired and frustrated, then suddenly a wise man turns up to show you the way back home and end your desolation. After I left his office, I went straight to the library to find books on PTSD. I was so anxious to find out about it that I didn’t notice two hours passing as I sat on the carpeted floor in front of the health section in the library, skimming through the pages of books about PTSD. This field of psychology by itself seemed to be vast and there was so much to learn. I took two books home with me and started reading them more carefully at night. I was discovering some new dimensions

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to my disorder that I honestly found overwhelming. What an illusion! Whatever I had learned before seemed to have been the tip of the iceberg. Perhaps I was trying too hard to understand everything and was putting myself under too much strain. I suddenly felt a sense of futility and closed the book and threw it on the floor. ‘Fuck this,’ I said. I sat on the balcony, lit up a cigarette and stared deep into the darkness; my eyes were filled with tears. ‘I don’t want you to read any more books about this. Just follow my therapy thoroughly and try to move on,’ said Dr Crino when I told him about the hopelessness and despair I’d felt the night before. It was so reassuring to have him on my side, because I was sick of self-doubt. Now I could see how important it was to seek professional help. We may study and form an opinion about certain illnesses or disorders but that is not enough to qualify us to treat ourselves. Our understanding, however, helps the therapy work more effectively and quickly. To use an analogy from my own field of expertise, it was like a junior engineer designing a retaining wall based on information received over the phone from a colleague. The retaining wall is built, but after three months it begins to give way. An experienced engineer shows that the assumptions about loads and soil properties had been inaccurate and as a result the wall needs strengthening. I, too, lacked the experience and knowledge to deal with my own emotional mess. I thought I knew it all, I thought I had covered all the important factors of my nervous illness but obviously I was dead wrong. ‘I thought I had got over it,’ I confessed. ‘Everything was getting better and better but all of a sudden I found myself back where I was in the first place, in the depth of despair.’ ‘Setbacks are normal and it may happen again in the future. Besides, it seems to me that the root causes of your disorder haven’t been dealt with properly yet,’ he replied and started

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asking questions about my days in the army. He wanted me to explain all the horrifying events in detail. Talking about the war and the tragedies I had witnessed was quite upsetting and therefore I had long ago decided not to even think about them. ‘I don’t like your questions. All that happened over fifteen years ago and is now ancient history,’ I protested. ‘Unfortunately, this is a vital part of your treatment. Time alone is not an indication they have been resolved and I sense they still upset you.’ He looked into my eyes over his glasses. ‘Those upsetting memories should be replayed and you need to process the unsettling emotions.’ ‘It was all a mistake.’ I sighed, looking down. All of a sudden, I felt an overwhelming surge of hopelessness about how things were going. ‘What are you talking about?’ he raised his eyebrows. ‘The emigration to Australia; I didn’t have this problem back in Iran.’ I felt so disheartened. ‘Saeed, you’re dead wrong about this. It is very unlikely you could have avoided PTSD after going through a serious trauma, and from what I have heard from you in our sessions, I suspect it would have hit you by now even if you had stayed in Iran.’ He picked up his pen and started making notes. I was there to seek help and resolve my issues so I reluctantly gave in and talked about the traumatic events of the past. As I was describing the harsh days during the war, he noticed that I skipped some details I had considered unimportant, but he interrupted and made me elaborate on them. He kept jotting down notes and patiently listened to me. From that session he asked me to write about the upsetting memories and to bring them to the next sessions. He wanted me to read them out loud to him. I had run out of cash and would have to use my credit card for my next visits. Susan and I had always had only one joint

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bank account and our small incomes were deposited directly in that. It was now unavoidable; I had to tell her about my need to see a psychologist. ‘It’s nothing to worry about, only a few sessions to sort out my thoughts,’ I said, using my best acting techniques to sound normal and calm. Luckily, she took it well and didn’t sound shocked or concerned, perhaps because I had never behaved or said anything to make her worry about me. ‘Money is for spending. Do what is right for you.’ She paused, looking into my eyes. ‘I trust your judgement.’ It was such a relief to get it off my chest; I didn’t have to hide seeing a psychologist from her anymore. During those weeks, I had difficulty sleeping on some nights and as a result, the sleeping tablets were back on the kitchen bench again. Dr Crino didn’t like the idea of me taking them but didn’t object either. It was during our eighth session that he asked me to write about Darius and his death, and as with the previous writings, he wanted me to describe the most upsetting details. This was crunch time; the hardest task possible for me. Like a good student, I accepted the task and the challenge. I summoned all my courage to get through this ordeal. I started writing it two hours before my next session with Dr Crino so that I could take it to him straightaway; I feared not being able to hold the painful memories for too long. It was excruciating to express what I had witnessed and how I felt. I was choosing to walk through fire when I knew it would only burn and hurt. After I read it to him, he gave me a five-minute break and then asked me to re-read it. He knew too well that Darius’s death was the main underlying issue for me to deal with so Rocco spent the rest of the session discussing it with me. During the following session he ordered me to re-read my writing about Darius and continued to talk about his death in detail, helping me form new attitudes towards the entire

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experience. At the end of the session, it felt less painful to talk about Darius and his dead body. It became apparent to me there was a breakthrough. ‘I wonder who’s to take the blame for all the trauma and suffering I have been through, doctor, because it wasn’t my fault,’ I said with frustration. ‘What happened wasn’t under your control but your recovery is. Leave the blame for now and only focus on your own life. You will have plenty of time in the years to come to analyse that,’ he said with his usual warm smile. ‘Am I going to be hit hard by my disorder in the future like the recent episode?’ I was hoping to hear a resounding ‘No!’ ‘You shouldn’t be hit hard,’ he replied emphasising the word hard, ‘but even if you are, you just have to keep going, day after day, week after week. You may have setbacks or some difficult episodes in the future. Don’t catastrophise it, just keep on going. This must be your attitude if you want to make a full recovery.’ I wanted badly to believe that all those dreadful emotions and sensations would never come back again but I knew too well it was only a childish expectation. Those patterns had been internalised and therefore they needed time to be replaced by more productive and positive ones. ‘This isn’t going to be rapid or easy,’ said Dr Crino. ‘It is perfectly natural for you to want instant relief but this isn’t like a headache or an ear infection to be cured by medication. Nor is it like a broken bone or a blocked artery to be fixed by an operation.’ I was tired of all the bodily sensations, tired of my thoughts and myself. I was tired of all the therapy, reading, confusion, and self-doubt. Despite all that, I was dogged in my determination to get through it. There was no way out, I decided. I wanted recovery, full recovery, and nothing less. ‘Now let’s make a list of the things or situations that may

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unsettle you,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t wait for them to happen sometime in the future; instead, you should voluntarily face them.’ We made a list of my feared situations and events in order to set up my personal experiments. I wanted to get stuck in and face my worst fear straightaway but he suggested I should go step by step in order to consolidate each experiment. We set them up based on severity. So I decided to start with watching PG rated movies about war and then war movies with more violence and bloodshed. The gradual exposure made it more tolerable but it was still rough and gut wrenching. Within three weeks I could sit down and watch a gory movie about war. I had never enjoyed watching very violent scenes but I knew that my fear of watching war movies had to be overcome. One evening in the library I came across a book called Tom Brown’s School Days. I borrowed it with the aim of reading it to Soha at night. The story is about a boy who is sent to Rugby School to board, where bullying is systematic and embedded in the school culture. Tom’s reluctance to give in to Flashman’s unjust demands makes him a target for constant abuse and punishment. This thirteen-year-old boy’s courage is far greater than the physical superiority of the bullies at school and despite being burned in front of a fire, he stands his ground and eventually defeats the heartless bullies. This inspiring story somehow resonated with me and I felt a powerful connection with Tom. Tom could have been seriously injured or even killed during his confrontation with the bullies at school but he didn’t surrender to injustice. I too had to deal with the injustice of an emotional disorder that had hurt me for too long. Like Tom I was being tormented. His tormentors were bullies and mine were my own nerves and symptoms. Like him I was paralysed by fear at first but

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gradually gained more and more courage and confidence to deal with the monster. It was clear to him that he had to fight and defeat the external bully, but who was I supposed to fight and defeat? I was feeling the same fear and trepidation, the same urge to fight and knock out the bully, but my bully was inside me and with every punch I would only hurt myself. Like Tom, I had to face the bully and not shy away. I had to let the bully see in my eyes that I had no fear of him, that I would not surrender. Unlike Tom, I had to go against my instincts. My body was full of tension, which was counterproductive. I had to make no tense effort, I had to float and not fight. I had to show the bully that he had no significance in my life or influence in my decision-making. I had to show him he didn’t matter any longer. My way of knocking out my bully was to make him unimportant. After completing most of the upsetting experiments, my sessions with Dr Crino were reduced to once a month, since I was now coping well. However, some of the past memories were still unsettling at times. ‘How much longer should I give this?’ I asked, sounding a bit impatient. Dr Crino read a paragraph from Claire Weekes’ book: A Dutchman once said to an English author that the post-war Dutch were suffering from a spiritual sickness, which time and understanding would heal. He said that suffering could not be erased the moment the war ended and peace came; time was necessary for the Dutch to regain their balance, their ability to be on top of events, including their own lives. ‘Be patient with us. We have to grow into liberty.’ (Complete Self Help for Your Nerves) It took me a while to understand that nothing could be forced in my disorder. It was a lengthy process of painful learning. My

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recovery wasn’t in forgetting the past but in recognising that the presence of my symptoms no longer mattered, that they are of no more consequence than a sneeze and there is no point fighting a sneeze. And for this to occur, time had to pass. It wasn’t easy but I eventually achieved it. After so many years, I still occasionally experience my old symptoms or the memories from the past, but now I know what they are and where they come from. I now have a positive and deeply internalised attitude, regarding them like a headache that comes and goes. I refuse to dwell on them; I refuse to see them as significant. I’ve learned to use my self-awareness and automatically rise above the situation. Without analysing or thinking about them, I float, getting on with my own activities. They just no longer matter. Three years ago, at the end of winter, I suddenly noticed that the grass in my front yard had largely turned brown and was full of weeds. I had neglected my garden. Large patches of grass were completely lifeless apart from the weeds. After weeding the garden, I fertilised the grass and started watering it regularly. Two weeks passed and there was no sign of improvement but I didn’t give up and continued to water it every day and sometimes twice in hot weather. At the end of the second month, some green shoots gradually began to emerge among the brown patches, and at the end of the third month, my front yard had a beautiful green carpet of grass. It took months for the grass to renew itself from inside out. There was no shortcut. This reminded me of my own recovery from emotional disorder. I needed to be hopeful, patient and with discipline continue to do the right thing until the green leaves of clarity replaced the brown patches of illusion in my mind. Since that time, the grass in the front yard has been through very rough hot and cold seasons but my careful attention plus the toughness of the grass itself have kept it alive and healthy.

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Similarly, over the past years, I myself have been through very challenging times in my professional and personal life but my consistent optimistic attitude has kept me healthy and full of life. I now look at all I went through, the heartbreak, the suffering, and all the lessons I learned, as an integral part of me. All I went through forged my character to become the person I am now. I have no regrets. I’m now more compassionate to people with emotional problems and understand them at a deeper level. The pieces of the puzzle that bewildered and paralysed me for so long are now in their right places. I can see the picture now. There was no monster or demon, or any other external force controlling me. I now have a far clearer picture of fear, my nervous system, the human mind and my emotional makeup. My journey of pain, suffering, self-discovery and recovery taught me that no matter what life throws at me, I can handle it. We instinctively avoid suffering and pain, but by their nature, they are our biggest catalyst for learning and growth, in order to find peace and pleasure. I didn’t allow my adversary to break me, and instead, with my own conscious efforts, I used it to reshape me. I have no regret.

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It is easier to use the word ‘recovery’ for physical injuries or illnesses as they are more tangible and can be measured more easily. But when it comes to nervous illness and psychological disorders, things are more complicated and it is harder to gauge improvement. I had already made significant advances in my recovery process, but I knew there was more to be done to free myself completely from the grip of the old demon in my head. Real freedom depended on being able to move on with my life and convince myself not to dwell on those inescapable symptoms. There was a disruptive circuit in my brain that had been dominating my moods, thoughts, emotions, physical state and, quite simply, my life. I now knew almost all about it, which made me less paranoid, but I had to find ways to lessen its effects radically. Through my personal experiments based on Dr Weekes’ methods plus Dr Crino’s therapy, I had improved significantly, but the reshaping of my brain was not complete

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and the disturbing circuit was still powerfully alive and real. It may be hard to fathom how a person with a mental disorder can be imprisoned in a world of shadows where anything may appear in unreal and exaggerated forms. For instance, I remember once I saw a whitish ghost sitting opposite me at our dining table trying to strike up a conversation with me. It looked so real that for months I thought it was a divine presence who had appeared to rescue me. My illusion, however, was fortunately shattered when I read that people suffering from anxiety disorders may see visions when they are in intense emotional states. This phenomenon exists in all cultures, and in non-Christian countries people may see visions of their holy prophets or Imams. There were still many objects, images, memories and even thoughts that could easily trigger my symptoms. In many situations I still found myself startled and unsettled, forced to focus on my symptoms and reminded that I was still enchained. All too often when I wanted to focus on reading or doing something that required a quiet space, the dominant brain circuitry would fire up and my symptoms would pounce. I had already learned to float calmly and slowly get on with the task at hand, but I wanted this to happen automatically and quickly with little effort. This meant I had to make major changes deep within my own psyche, changing my biological nature and stabilising alternative brain circuits. During my first job at a consulting firm in Sydney, I deliberately avoided phone conversations or contact with clients and even my colleagues, as I was scared of making mistakes and of potential humiliation. Jeanette, our secretary, noticed my fear of expressing myself in front of others. ‘There is a club you might consider joining; it will help you in communicating with others.’ She paused. ‘It’s called the Toastmasters Club.’ That was the first time I’d heard about Toastmasters; back

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then, I didn’t even know what the term meant. Jeanette was such a caring and lovely person that I took her advice without hesitation. When I attended a Toastmasters Club in Chatswood for the first time, I was impressed by the warm welcome I received from its members. I listened to three prepared speeches, watched the table topics, which involved a form of impromptu speech, and other parts of the program. They asked me to participate in the impromptu speech but I refused as I was terrified of speaking in front of a bunch of total strangers. It took me a few meetings until I allowed my nerves to be tested during the table topics. Right after that venture I decided to give my first prepared speech: The Ice Breaker. Although I had been living with my own familiar fears for so long, it was amazing to notice that the fear of public speaking didn’t fire the dominant circuit in my brain; it was something different and very powerful, which overshadowed my other fears. Surprisingly, it didn’t trigger my heart palpitations either. Instead I felt a bit dizzy, my mouth was dry, and the only similar symptom was shortness of breath. Considering the world of shadows in my head, I realised intellectually that a Toastmasters Club was exactly what I needed, putting myself in situations where my inward focus would be overpowered by real external activities, dealing with the fear of a real challenge instead of being consumed by the exaggerated and unreal fears in my head. To put myself in similar situations, I arranged a family trip to the Gold Coast. I spent four full days in the theme parks and did all the scariest rides. My troubling brain circuitry did not fire during the rides and I experienced a different combination of emotions and sensations. This is fantastic! I whispered in amazement. It was liberating to see that my brain was rewiring

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itself and was functioning in a more normal way. The fear was there of course, as it was with public speaking, but it was a normal, reasonable fear, which could be managed and overcome. In line with Dr Weekes’ advice, adopting a dynamic lifestyle was an important factor in my recovery. My routine morning exercise was a habit that helped me cope with my anxiety disorder. Obviously, it couldn’t cure it, but it reduced tension and boosted my mood. A big cause of distress was the feeling that I had no control over my body and nerves, but the very fact that I could work through my exercises helped me develop the belief that I was gradually gaining control over my body. My incurable attachment to following the news in Australia, Iran and the rest of the world undoubtedly acted as a circuit breaker, opening the window to the world outside and temporarily freed me from the powerful inner magnet that attracted all my attention otherwise. This routine enabled me to remind myself that there was a world out there much bigger than mine and above all it helped me put things in perspective. Perhaps the biggest outcome of my recovery was an improvement in my relationship with my family, friends and others. Living with an anxiety disorder is like wearing a pair of lenses that are tinted with red or another alarming colour. As a result of my distorted vision, I was automatically on the lookout for whatever might pose a slight risk to my family, in particular to Soha. My need to overprotect her during primary school was beyond any form of normal parenting; I went out of my way almost every day to drop her at school myself and pick her up from after-school care in the afternoon. I even enrolled her in a martial arts class to learn self-defence because of my own insecurities. However, after my recovery, I was able to remove my lenses and see the world around me clearly. I gradually rectified my approach and encouraged Soha to go to school by herself, although my subconscious kept shrieking in

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my head for months, severely admonishing me for disobeying it. I now knew that the best protection she could have was to become independent. When Soha was elected as High School Captain in 2010, I was filled with pride and joy to see that my daughter had risen from dependence to leadership. Similarly, my relationship with Susan improved. Although I had never stopped loving and supporting her, the quality of our communication had plunged into perpetual criticism and I was constantly giving her unhelpful advice. Because of my agitated and rowdy mind, I had stopped being a good listener and that was enough to ruin my marriage. After my recovery, I gradually managed to identify and rid myself of the flaws in my approach towards Susan and subsequently our relationship began to flourish. What I learned from Dr Weekes and the therapies of Dr Crino coupled with my own determination enabled me to stabilise new constructive brain circuits and to get on with my life. It was neither simple nor easy, but my future depended on reshaping my brain and I managed to make that happen. The key was a purposeful and meaningful life, in which I was determined to learn, grow and make a difference in the lives of others.

It’s far from a fairytale, but things went swimmingly in my life after I recovered from PTSD. I found that I could handle normal life successfully. I could focus more comfortably at my new job in a construction firm, which allowed me to slowly settle in and consolidate my position. Ever since, I’ve taken pleasure in the design and coordination associated with my role as a senior structural engineer. Leaving behind those tumultuous years, I began to taste how good normal life could be. From then on I began to explore different facets of life

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in Australia in more detail, its history, economy, culture, industry, politics and social makeup. I genuinely desired to feel at home. When I’d entered Australia, I felt like a complete stranger and outsider; it took me years of study to understand my new homeland through my own unique determination and disciplined efforts. It wasn’t easy. For someone like me with a very different background, it was often difficult to make sense of concepts like multiculturalism or integration. The multicultural society in Australia at first reminded me of utopia. How amazing it is to see that people of different cultures and backgrounds can live in harmony with mutual respect. I wish this could be extended to all countries, especially in the Middle East. Nevertheless, I gradually realised that the idea of maintaining distinct ethnic cultures in a country could also pose some problems. I’ve noticed that some migrants do not feel a strong sense of belonging in Australia, or can’t integrate themselves into society even after a very long time. They decide to live in their own communities because it is much easier than fitting in with mainstream Australian culture. One thing that I found confusing from the very start was what I saw on commercial channels, especially the morning shows or the news bulletins. Even after fifteen years of living in this country I still feel that the commercial channels are subliminally promoting the White Australia Policy, as the presenters always appear to be of Anglo-Saxon descent. If multiculturalism is valued in this country, why are the commercial channels still sticking to the rotten mentality that existed a century ago? Why don’t they hire Australians with olive or black skins? Are they trying to implicitly promote racism? As a migrant with a Middle Eastern background, I’ve been subjected to racism and suffered the sting of verbal abuse occasionally during my years in this country, especially after the 9/11 tragedy. Being mistreated because of my race or

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background was hurtful. It is undeniable that a small portion of Australians are chronically racist. Some perhaps live with the illusion that they are from a superior race. Some seem to be uneducated and not immersed in today’s culturally diverse society. And some are mere arseholes. I’m certain that in time the first two groups will adapt to the changes that have taken place in this country, but I don’t think there can be any remedy for the third group. Every country has its own share of arseholes! From my first years in this country, I’ve been blessed with some wonderful Australian friends. There are a million positive qualities I can attribute to them and I always relish their company. Their friendship has enriched my life and helped me feel at home. We meet regularly on weekends, we share the ups and downs in our lives, have coffee, go for walks over the Harbour Bridge, talk about books and literature, discuss the issues of the day and exchange our views on politics. I’ve been an Australian citizen since the year 2000 and I feel very lucky to have this honour. Having dual citizenship is like adopting two children for whom I have equal love. Understandably, I didn’t feel the same way for Australia in the beginning and it took me several years to develop a deep feeling of national pride. I’m not white, I wasn’t born here and my mother tongue isn’t English, but I feel deeply that I’m an Australian. The first thing I do in the morning is to check the news in the Sydney Morning Herald, ABC news and then BBC Persian to get an update on the events in both countries. We can’t be indifferent to what is happening in our country and the rest of the world. A brief look through the morning paper or watching the headlines during the nightly news can tell us that we should do more. Ten years after the invasion of Iraq, peace and order are yet to return to that embattled country. Nearly one thousand people are being killed every month in Iraq

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due to the sectarian violence generated by the invasion. Like thousands of others, I participated in the anti-war protest in Sydney before the invasion, but clearly we didn’t do enough to stop our government from getting involved in that futile war in Iraq. Saddam was an evil tyrant, but the invasion — based on lies about weapons of mass destruction — wasn’t the appropriate solution to the problem. Moreover, it brought more bloodshed and suffering to the Iraqi people. In 2009, after the presidential election was hijacked in Iran, I helped organise a large protest in Sydney to condemn this blatant injustice, in solidarity with the Iranian people. It turned out to be a loud and decisive response by the Iranians resident in Sydney against that embarrassing and unjust charade in Iran. I was interviewed as one of the organisers and appeared on national TV channels. Our protest didn’t change the outcome of the election, but the voices of Iranian people, both inside and outside the country, shook the pillars of the Iranian regime. In November 2012, I attended the ABC’s TV program ‘Q&A’ and presented a question about forming a new political party to Kevin Rudd and Malcolm Turnbull, which became the headline throughout the country on the following day. There were several articles in various newspapers and my idea was reviewed and discussed by journalists and politicians. Perhaps to many it wasn’t a proposition to be taken seriously and honestly it wasn’t a big deal to me either. I was stunned to find myself repeatedly on TV the following day for my rather simple question. Nevertheless, it was significant for me; I wasn’t on the sidelines anymore and I could use my democratic rights to publicly voice my opinion about a political issue. It was proof that I’d learned enough about the language, the culture and political landscape in this country to feel at home and have a genuine sense of belonging.

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Australia is my home, my country, and while I may not be a true-blue, blond-haired, convict-descendent lifeguard from Bondi beach with a broad ocker accent, I’m proud of being an Australian.

Throughout this book I have expressed my desire to have a normal life like others. Now that I have it, I should confess that I like it and I don’t like it. Though it has been sweet to have a nine to five job during the week and indulge myself with parties and socialising on the weekends, I soon felt that I was plagued with mediocrity and my lifestyle was pulling me down. There was an irksome voice in me asking for more and reminding me of my mission. This inner dissatisfaction coincided with my reading A Fortunate Life by A. B. Facey. Although the story of my life began long ago, the story of my book began at a book club. Being a member of a book club means you’re bound to read a book each month. I’ve read more than sixty books over the past five years; some were a waste of time, many of them were great books and a few of them were life changing. One book that had a profound impact on me was Facey’s book. It’s a piece of Australian history, as seen through the eyes of an ordinary man. I found it more compelling and entertaining than any other book I had read about Australia. I’m increasingly certain that the phrase history is written by the victors is now an outdated view. History is no longer the sole province of academics and scholars concerned with faded documents and dry statistics. Rather, the history that people are really concerned with is personal history, history with an emotional depth and a message about life — narrative history, as some call it. While this isn’t my full history, it is an important part of it, which I believe is worth sharing.

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At first, I was baffled by the title A Fortunate Life, which seemed inconsistent with the adversities Facey had faced, especially during his formative years, but eventually I came to recognise his unique positive outlook on life, despite the ugly challenges he faced. Like Facey, I had a story to tell, a story about revolution, love, war, camaraderie and migration. Like him, I wanted to tell my story plainly and simply. Like him, I intended to record the slice of history I had lived; from the eyes of the little guy. As the little guy, I didn’t initiate the revolution and couldn’t contain it later on. I didn’t wage war with Iraq, nor did I end it. I didn’t start the campaign for freedom that is still underway. Nevertheless, I did my bit to make a difference, I participated, I tried to maintain a semblance of humanity for future generations. Like his book, my story is not heroic; it’s just a story of a little guy living a challenging life. Less than a month after reading his book, I felt an immense urge to pour out my story and share it with others. I had kept a journal faithfully, but I was totally out of my depth when I contemplated writing a book. So I looked up various courses on the Macquarie Community College website and one short course stood out: Creative Writing. I didn’t hesitate to enrol when I weighed $180 against eight sessions of coaching! When I entered the class, our teacher Julie and another young girl, Kelly, were chatting. Our room was in fact the kitchen where a table with eight chairs had been masterfully positioned to allow other students to make themselves a cup of coffee or simply grab a glass of water. ‘Is this the Creative Writing course?’ I asked Julie — the setting looked more appropriate for a cooking course. I puzzled over the possible correlation between a kitchen and creative writing; there must be one, otherwise this prime spot would have been granted to another course! The unimaginative jars filled with instant

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coffee and tea bags on the kitchen bench would certainly inspire no creativity in me — I would rather set fire to myself than drink the kind of instant coffee they had stocked! I introduced myself and quietly chose a chair at the far corner to give myself the space I needed to study the unfamiliar terrain. A minute later another woman entered and sat right in front of me. ‘I’m Angie,’ she said in a beautiful British accent. She was rather tall and looked to be in her thirties. The fourth student arrived with a grin and red hair: Mary. It was easy to classify her as either a university student or a young graduate. Like me, she began to curiously observe the faces of those in the room, which made me very conscious of myself. This is a wretched beginning! ‘OK everyone, let’s get started!’ said Julie as she put a form on the table to record our particulars on it. As I was recording my details on the form, the fifth student entered the room; another young woman! ‘I’m Christie.’ She had just recovered from delivering her first child and chosen this course as a respite from motherhood. As I was miserably getting more shy and embarrassed, Julie threw me a lifeline: ‘I want you all to write down your expectations from this class and why you’re here.’ If it were a bigger class, I would have attempted to make myself invisible by sitting in the very back row as I had done during my time in high school, but in this small kitchen, I had to deal with my feelings and try not to hide. It was a relief that I survived the first class without a heart attack! After the first few sessions my shyness began to abate and I felt more relaxed sitting with five young women around the same table. Julie liked to run an interactive class but I never volunteered a single answer. She also gave us various tasks, such as describing settings or characters. Angie and Kelly were masterful and the other two girls were quite capable writers; they were a thousand miles ahead of me. Am I kidding

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myself? I can’t even handle simple writing tasks! I thought. Despite my realisation that it would be next to impossible for me to write my own memoir, let alone in English, I attended all the classes to try to get my money’s worth. ‘Why don’t you try to write in Persian and then get someone to translate it for you?’ asked Kelly one night when we were walking to the car park. After a few sessions observing the quality of my work, she was evidently trying to puzzle out what the heck I was doing there. I had heard the same suggestion from another friend of mine. It was like taking up tennis when you had no skills and little physical readiness to handle a serious match. I was given a solution that was in a sense an easy way out, but it wasn’t what I had aspired to. I wanted to write my own book, every paragraph, every sentence, and I wanted to write it in English by myself. Now my wish was in tatters because I didn’t possess the skills my dream required. One night I received an email from a friend that changed my attitude towards my goal. It was a short story: Two little boys were playing on the ice during the winter. As they got further onto the ice, one of them fell through the ice and his buddy, who was still above the ice, tried to save him. He tried to break the ice and did all he could but it didn’t work and his friend began to sink. Suddenly in the distance he saw a big tree and ran to the tree and broke a branch, ran back to his friend and frantically started beating the ice until it broke. He was able to finally reach his friend and pull him up. As the paramedics came, they were able to revive his friend and save his life … and they wondered to themselves, ‘How did this little boy go up a big tree, break off a big branch and break ice this thick to save his friend? How could he do it?’ An old man who was there said to them, ‘I’ll tell you how he did it.’ They asked, ‘How?’ And the old man said, ‘There was no one here to tell him he couldn’t …’

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I read this little parable perhaps a hundred times. I wanted each and every cell in my body to grasp the message hidden in it. I decided to be deaf to all who considered my choice unrealistic or impossible. I decided to listen to my own inner voice, which begged me to go against the odds and achieve the impossible. I decided to write my own book, and in English. I determined that this second language of mine was the tree and the words were the branches I would use to shatter the obstacles in front of me. So when Angie suggested regular meetings to share our writing, I didn’t hesitate to express my interest in joining them. While that table which was once so daunting at the writing course was long gone, I no longer feared taking my place at it. In our first writing group meeting, on a Thursday evening, only Kelly, Mary and I turned up. Meeting two girls in a cafe in Chatswood was quite an unusual and precarious step for me. I constantly scanned the passersby to ensure none of my acquaintances saw me flirting with two girls. It would definitely end up being reported in Persian newspapers as well as being discussed on Sunday Persian radio stations! Mary’s work commitments gradually constrained her attendance and finally one night she announced she wouldn’t be able to attend our meetings any longer. Kelly, however, remained interested and committed. She was encouraging and the attention she paid to my story kept me writing for our weekly meetings. Nevertheless, a couple of months later, she also decided to call it quits. A good portion of my first draft was composed during the months I met them on Thursday nights in 2012. The repercussions of my meetings with Mary and Kelly in Chatswood still haunt me. About two months ago I was in the same cafe with two of my Persian friends when one of the lovely waiters dropped a bombshell: ‘Your girlfriend was here

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a couple of days ago. How come you didn’t turn up?’ I knew he referred to Kelly. ‘What are you talking about? What girlfriend?’ I felt steam rising above my heated ears and I blushed uncontrollably. ‘The blonde girl you used to meet here on Thursdays,’ he said, looking astonished at my apparent amnesia. He looked so innocent that I had no choice but to tell the truth to my friends. Not surprisingly, they didn’t believe me!

I said the story of this book started in a book club, but it might be interesting to note that I initiated the book club. In June 2008, I sent out an email to some friends and invited them to join me to form a book club. On Sunday 27 July 2008, we held our first book club meeting at my place, discussing The Present by Spencer Johnson. My aim was to include different genres; fiction, autobiography, history, mind and body, and even science. You may see this as a service to the community, but frankly I have been the biggest beneficiary of this book club, which has added meaning to my life. During the last five years, several members joined and several others left. We’ve hardly been unanimous in our choice of books and we now know each other’s preferences. For instance, this is how Maria reacts: ‘If this book is suggested by Saeed or even favoured by him, I’m not gonna read it!’ Paradoxically, if she detects the slightest sign of indifference in me towards a book, she says: ‘That must be an excellent book; that has my vote!’ Like my other social activities, organising a book club has added more meaning to my life and has engaged my mind in a productive manner. Certainly the members benefit from my efforts, but I’ve been the main beneficiary. In a movie about C. S. Lewis’s life called Shadowlands, one

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of his students at Oxford told him something that resonated with me: ‘We read to know we’re not alone.’ Perhaps this has always been the main reason behind my love of reading. I was brought up in a big family, but ironically I began to feel quite lonely during my teenage years. I found it difficult to open up to my parents or my older siblings. My parents were too busy raising seven children and my older siblings were wrestling with challenges in their own worlds. That was when I discovered the amazing companionship of books and literature. I started reading to know I wasn’t alone. My first awesome friend was John Christopher by Romain Rolland. Those four volumes were my companions during my quiet nights for months. The gate to the world of reading is open to anyone who seeks company and the wisdom of the ages. You are now at the end of your journey with me. I hope you found it a good companion too. If you’re grappling with emotional or mental troubles, if you find the burden of past adversity or trauma too heavy to carry, if you’re struggling to make sense of your first failed love, if you’re suffering injustice, and if you miss the camaraderie you once enjoyed with special friends in your life, I hope reading this book helped you see you’re not alone. In the immortal words of ABBA, I hope this book also helped you see that the sun is still in the sky and shining above you!

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EPILOGUE During the writing of this book I had to consider the privacy of my family and finally I decided to say little about them and their personal lives. So rest assured, dear reader, I’m not egocentric and didn’t want this story to be all about me! Obviously, there are certain people who were inseparable from my past and naturally had to be included in this memoir. Nevertheless, I had to protect their identity by adopting aliases for them and changing the context in which they entered my life. I did this for two reasons: first, I didn’t have their permission — it was impossible for me to track down everyone from so long ago; second, I feared that revealing our shared history might adversely affect their marital or personal lives. I would have loved to complement the accounts in this book with photos, but unfortunately cameras were luxury commodities during the earlier stages of my life. I have no photos from places such as Turkey or Romania, nor do I have photos of every person who is mentioned in this book. The sad irony is that I have access to an abundance of photos of certain individuals such as Hanna, which I cannot share with you in order to protect her identity … but such is life! I was still meeting Hanna in my dreams occasionally and could find no explanation for it. Her memory was lurking in my subconscious, ready to leap out unexpectedly. Perhaps this is how first love works and how it can be defined. I kept having those dreams until one day, accidentally, I located her on Facebook. I looked closely at her photos to see how much she had changed and tried to remember her face when we had met three decades ago. Although women are masters at

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adjusting their age by means of hair dye or perhaps a few shots of Botox, her face could give a brief account of the decades in which I hadn’t seen her. From that moment I completely stopped seeing her in my dreams, as though my subconscious had received what it had been looking for — closure. During the past sixteen years, I’ve been back to Iran three times to visit my family and friends. The political and economic instability resulting from Iran’s conflict with the West has been a constant cause of concern. Moreover, a series of harsh economic sanctions imposed on Iran have resulted in high inflation and unemployment, which have inflicted immense hardship upon the people. The new government in Iran, under Rouhani, is now trying to resolve the dispute with the West and end the sanctions. I’ve tried to maintain contact with my family and friends. The unswerving love and devotion we felt still exist between us, but I should confess that the physical distance has created a void that cannot be disregarded. During my recent trip to Iran, I was wary of giving my nephews and nieces advice. How could I? My nephew, who was only five when I emigrated from Iran, is now twenty-one. I’ve been out of his life during his formative years. I don’t know his interests, I don’t know much about his personal and social life; I know so little about him. How could I suddenly barge in and tell him what to do for his studies or professional development? So, despite the indescribable love between us, I forbid myself from acting as the wise uncle! But perhaps this memoir will give me the chance to passively impart some of the wisdom I have gained through hard life lessons. I should also confess that I no longer have frequent contact with my old friends, although I’m confident the unparalleled camaraderie between us still exits. Over the years, each one of us has taken a different path in life: Saeid G and Mahmoud are

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still in Iran; one as a construction manager and the other as an experienced lawyer. Bahman migrated to Canada and now works as an IT manager. I still reminisce about the good times we had together. Writing this memoir has been a journey in itself, which has made me examine my past, my world and the people in my life more closely. It has helped me take stock of my half a century of life on this planet, to examine where I was, who I am and what I would like to do in the future. The journey has been one of learning; I have been forced to develop and refine the skills necessary to complete the task itself. However, above all I had to look at myself more critically and this has led me to see those in my life more empathically. I’m now conscious of the fact that everyone involved is likely to have a different perspective — I can only tell my story.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS First and foremost, I’d like to thank my awesome publisher, Oliver Freeman, who made the publication of this book possible. From the moment he saw the manuscript, he led me through an education of a life-time that I had never fathomed. Oliver, you are the best! Many thanks to my celebrity friend, Dr Charlie Teo, for his encouragement and endorsement of my book. I’d like to thank my young — but wise — friend, Joel Wood, who brilliantly corrected my writing errors and provided me with his valuable comments. And I appreciate the helpful feedback I received from another celebrity friend, Jeremy Stoljar. Many thanks to my clever editor, Nan McNab, whose careful attention to structure and detail made my book richer. Also I’d like to extend my gratitude to Michael Killalea for his extraordinary design of my book and its cover and to Clare Hallifax for her excellent proof-reading. I must also add my thanks to the great sales and distribution team at New South Books. But above all I want to thank my lovely wife, Susan, and my gorgeous daughter, Soha, who supported and encouraged me all the way.