The cheese was a strong Danish feta. Mahtob and I both like Danish feta, but Ameh Bozorg did not know that it must be stored covered in liquid in order to retain flavor. This cheese smelled like dirty feet. Mahtob and I choked down what we could. Later that morning Majid, the youngest son, visited with me at length. He was friendly and good-natured and his English was passable. There were so many places he wanted to take us. We must see the shah's palace, he said. And there was the Park Mellatt that featured a Tehran rarity grass.
He also wanted to take us shopping. All that would have to wait, we knew. The first few days would be devoted to receiving visitors. Relatives and friends from far and near wanted to see Moody and his family. That morning Moody insisted that we telephone my parents in Michigan, and this posed a problem.
My sons Joe and John, who were staying with my ex-husband back in Michigan, knew where we were, but I had sworn them to secrecy. I did not want Mom and Dad to know. They would worry. And right now they had too many other worries. Dad was battling what had been diagnosed as terminal colon cancer. I did not want to burden my parents further, so I had told them only that we were traveling to Europe.
So we called. Nearly halfway around the world I heard my mother's voice. After we exchanged hellos, I asked about Dad. We're having a nice time," I fibbed. We'll be home on the seventeenth. I put Mahtob on the phone and saw her eyes brighten as she heard Grandma's familiar voice. After the phone call I turned to Moody. I felt a twinge of panic.
Had my parents not heard him correctly? Or had I caught Moody in a lie? Moody's relatives came in droves, crowding into the hall for lunch or dinner. Men were met at the door with lounging pajamas.
They went quickly to another room to change, and then joined us in the hall. Ameh Bozorg had a ready supply of colorful chadors on hand for the visiting women, who were surprisingly adept at changing from black street chad or to the brightly colored social model without revealing a speck of forbidden facial skin. Throughout their conversations the men carried on endless devotions.
Each held a tassbead - a chain of plastic or stone prayer beads-in his hands, using it to count out thirty-three repetitions of "AlIahu AKBAR," "God is great. If visitors came in the morning, they began the cumbersome process of leave-taking around noontime.
Having changed back into their street clothes, they kissed one another good bye, moved slightly toward the door, chattered on, kissed again and moved a bit more, talked, screamed, cried, hugged-for another thirty minutes or forty-five minutes or an hour.
No one ever seemed concerned about keeping to a schedule. They did manage to leave, however, before early afternoon, for those hours were devoted to a siesta made necessary by the heat and the exacting prayer schedule.
If visitors came for dinner, they stayed late, for we always waited for Baba Hajji to arrive home from work never before ten o'clock to join a roomful of pajama-clad men and chad or-wrapped women for the evening meal. Normally I did not bother to cover my head in the privacy of the house, but some of the visitors were apparently more devout than others. On occasion, I was forced to cover.
One evening when guests arrived unexpectedly, Ameh Bozorg ran into our bedroom, threw a black chad or at me, and barked something at Moody. He is the counterpart of a Christian priest or pastor. Dressed in an abbah, a cape like robe, and the ever-present headpiece that spawned his nickname, a turban man is immediately distinguishable from the average Iranian man, who usually dresses Simply in a suit or sport coat and remains bareheaded.
A turban man commands great respect. There was, therefore, no opportunity to object to Moody's demand that I wear a chad or but as I donned the cumbersome robe I realized that it was filthy.
The veil that covers the lower part of the face was caked with dried spittle. I had seen no handkerchiefs or tissues in the household. What I had seen was the women using these veils instead. The smell was repulsive. The turban man was Aga Marashi. His wife was Baba Hajji's sister. He was also distantly related to Moody. Supporting himself with a hand-engraved wooden cane, he wobbled uncertainly into the hall, burdened with what had to be more than three hundred pounds of flesh.
He eased slowly to the floor, groaning with effort. Unableto sit cross-legged like everyone else, he spread his huge legs Out into a V-shape and hunched his shoulders forward. Under his black robes his belly scraped the floor.
Zohreh quickly brought a tray of cigarettes for the honored guest. He coughed and wheezed noisily, not bothering to cover his mouth. Tea was served immediately. Aga Marashi scooped a billowing teaspoonful of sugar into his estacon dragged on his cigarette, coughed, and added a second spoonful of sugar to his tea.
I could not decide which was more disgusting, the spittle-laden chad or I held tightly about my face, or the turban man in whose honor I was obliged to wear it. I sat through the visit, trying not to retch. After the guests had gone, I threw off the chad or and told Moody that I was disgusted at how filthy it was. Only when he examined the veil for himself did he concede that I was telling the truth. I wondered what strange things were coursing through Moody's head.
Had he eased so comfortably back into his childhood environment that everything seemed natural to him until I pointed it out? During those first few days Mahtob and I spent most of our time in the bedroom, coming out only when Moody told us there were more visitors to meet.
In our room we could at least sit on the bed rather than on the floor. Mahtob played with her bunny or with me. Mostly we were bored, hot, and miserable.
Late every afternoon Iranian television broadcast the news in English. Moody drew my attention to the daily show, and I came to look forward to it, not for its content, but just to hear my own language. The news started about and ran fifteen or twenty minutes, but the broadcasters were never precise with their timing. The first segment was inevitably about the ongoing war with Iraq, Each day there was a glorious body count of dead Iraqi troops, but never a mention of an Iranian casualty.
There was always some film clip of eager young men and women marching off to holy war the men to fight; the women to cook and also to take over the masculine task of baking bread , followed by a patriotic call for more volunteers.
Then came a five-minute segment of Lebanese news because the Shiite Moslems in Lebanon are a strong and violent faction backed by Iran, loyal to the Ayatollah Khomeini and a three-minute wrap-up of world news, which meant some negative report about America. Americans were dropping like flies from AIDS. The American divorce rate was staggering. I quickly tired of the rhetoric. If this was what they said on the English-speaking news, I wondered, what did they tell the Iranians?
Sayyed Salam Ghodsi, whom we called Baba Hajji, was an enigma. He was rarely present in the household, and he almost never spoke to his family other than to call them to prayer or to read from the Koran to them, yet his influence permeated the house. All through the day, as he interspersed his business matters with trips to the moskd, the heavy aura of his gloomy presence was still evident in his home. His father had been a turban man. His brother was recently martyred in iraq.
Ever cognizant of his distinguished credentials, he carried himself with the detached air of someone who knows himself to be a superior person. At the end of his long day of work and prayer, Baba Hajji created a tumult upon his return home. The sound of the iron gate opening about ten o'clock set off the alarm. Zohreh and her younger sister, Fereshteh, during the day covered themselves with roosaries, but their father's return occasioned a quick addition of chad or.
We had been Baba Hajji's house-guests for about five days, when Moody said to me, "You have to start wearing chad or in the house or at least your roosarie. They will understand, you said, because I am American. Moody continued. This is his house. There was also an undercurrent of authority almost a threatening quality. I knew that facet of his personality well, and I had combatted it in the past.
But this was his country, his people. I clearly had no choice in the matter, but each time I donned my hated scarf in order to enter Baba Hajji's presence, I reminded myself that we would be going home to Michigan soon, to my country and my people.
As the days passed, Ameh Bozorg grew less cordial. She complained to Moody about our wasteful American habit of showering every day.
In preparation for our visit she had gone to the hamoom, the public bath-for the ritual that takes a full day to complete. She had not bathed since that time, and obviously did not intend to do so in the foreseeable future. She and the rest of her clan dressed in the same filthy clothes day after day, despite the drenching heat. The argument ended in a draw. We continued to shower daily; Ameh Bozorg and her family continued to stink.
Despite insisting upon his own cleanliness, Moody, incredibly, still did not seem to notice the filth all around him until I forced his attention. At dinner that night I surreptitiously spooned through the rice, gathering up several black bugs in one helping, which I piled onto Moody's plate.
It is not polite to leave a morsel of food on your plate so, unwilling to offend, Moody ate the bugs. He got my point. Moody did notice the offensive odor that wafted throughout the house whenever Ameh Bozorg determined that it was necessary to ward off the evil eye. This was accomplished by burning foul-smelling black seeds in a diffuser, a metal dish interlaced with holes similar to a colander. A diffuser is essential for cooking rice in the Iranian style; it spreads the heat evenly, allowing for the formation of the crust.
But in Ameh Bozorg's hands, filled with smoldering seeds and carried to every corner of the house, it was an instrument of torture. Moody hated the smell as much as I. Sometimes Mahtob played a bit with the visiting children, picking up a few words of Farsi, but the environment was so strange that she always stayed close to me and to her bunny. Once, to pass the time, she counted the mosquito bites on her face. There were twenty-three. Her entire body, in fact, was covered with red welts.
As the days passed, Moody increasingly seemed to forget that Mahtob and I existed. At first he had translated every conversation, every idle comment. Now he no longer bothered. Mahtob and I were put on display for the guests and then had to sit for hours, trying to appear pleasant, even though we could understand nothing. Several days passed during which Mahtob and I spoke only to each other. A pot of food stewed incessantly on the stove for the convenience of anyone who was hungry.
Many times I saw people take a taste from a large ladle like spoon, allowing the residue from their mouths to drip back into the pot or simply dribble onto the floor. Countertops and floor were honeycombed with trails of sugar left by careless tea drinkers The roaches flourished in the kitchen as well as in the bathroom. I ate almost nothing. Ameh Bozorg generally cooked a khoreshe made of lamb for dinner, making generous use of what she called the dohmbeh.
This is a bag of solid fat, about eighteen inches in diameter, that hangs from Iranian sheep beneath the tail, wobbling when the animal walks. It has a rancid taste that appeals to the Iranian palate and it serves as a cheap substitute for cooking oil.
Ameh Bozorg kept a dohmbeh in her refrigerator, and began cooking each dish by slicing off a chunk of fat and melting it in a skillet. Then she might saute' some onions in it, add a few chunks of meat, and throw in what beans and other vegetables were available.
This would simmer all afternoon and evening, the pungent odor of the fat from the dohmbeh permeating the house. By dinnertime neither Mahtob nor I could face Ameh Bozorg's cooking. Even Moody did not like it. Slowly his medical training and common sense intruded upon his respect for his family. Because I constantly complained about the unsanitary conditions, Moody finally noticed them sufficiently to make an issue of them.
You need to shower. You need to teach your children to shower. I am really unhappy to see you live like this. Ameh Bozorg ignored the words of her younger brother. When he was not looking, she shot a hateful glance in my direction, letting me know that she considered me to be the troublemaker. Showering daily was not the only western custom that offended my sister-in-law.
One day, as Moody was preparing to leave the house, he kissed me good-bye, lightly, on the cheek. Ameh Bozorg saw the exchange and flew into an immediate rage. After several days cooped up in Ameh Bozorg's dreary house, we finally went out to shop. Moody, Mahtob, and I had looked forward to this part of the trip, and the opportunity to buy exotic gifts for our friends and relatives back home.
We also wanted to take advantage of Tehran's comparatively low prices to purchase jewelry and carpets for ourselves. Several mornings in a row we were driven into the city by Zohreh or Majid. Each trip was an adventure into a city that had expanded from five million to as many as fourteen million residents during the four years since the revolution.
It was impossible to obtain an accurate census. Whole villages had been devastated by economic collapse; their residents fled to Tehran in search of food and shelter. Thousands-perhaps millions-of refugees from the Afghanistan war had also poured into the city. Everywhere we went we encountered hordes of people, scurrying about their business, grim-faced.
Not a smile was to be seen. Zohreh or Majid guided the car through incredible traffic jams, compounded by pedestrians willing to gamble their shabby lives and children who darted chaotically across crowded streets. Wide gutters edged the streets, rushing with water that ran down from the mountains. The populace found this free supply of water useful for a variety of purposes.
It was a general garbage disposal, carrying away trash. Shopkeepers dipped their mops into it. Some people urinated into it; others washed their hands in it. At every street corner we had to hop across the filthy stream. Construction was under way in every sector of the city, all performed by hand in a haphazard manner. Instead of using two-by-fours, frames were fashioned from logs about four inches in diameter, stripped of their bark, but still green, and often warped. With little thought of precision, construction workers pieced together logs of various sizes, like substandard Tinkertoys, to create homes of dubious quality and durability.
The city was under siege, its every activity scrutinized by heavily armed soldiers and scowling police. It was frightening to walk the streets in front of loaded rifles. What if a gun went off by accident? Revolutionary soldiers dressed in camouflage fatigues were ever-present. They stopped cars indiscriminately, searching for anti revolutionary contraband such as drugs, literature critical of Shiite Islam, or American-made cassette tapes. This latter offense could land you in prison for six months.
Then there were the ominous pasdar, a special police force that prowled about in small white four-wheel-drive Nissan trucks. Everyone seemed to have a horror story to tell about the pasdar. They were the Ayatollah's answer to the shah's Savak, the secret police. Dark legends had grown quickly about the pasdar, who were little more than street thugs suddenly bestowed with official power. One of the pasdar's assignments was to make sure women were properly dressed.
It was difficult for me to comprehend this insistence upon propriety. Women nursed their babies in plain view, caring little how much they revealed of their bosoms as long as their heads, chins, wrists, and ankles were covered. In the midst of this strange society, as Moody had told me, we were counted among the elite. We bore the prestige of a respected family that, compared to the norm, was far advanced in sophistication and culture. Even Ameh Bozorg was a paragon of wisdom and cleanliness next to the people on the streets of Tehran.
And we were, in relative terms, rich. Also, Mammal delighted in thrusting cash at us, showing off his own power and prestige and repaying us for all we had done for him in America.
The exchange rate from dollars to rials was difficult to comprehend. The banks paid about one hundred rials for a single dollar, but Moody said the black market rate was better. I suspected this Was the reason for some of the errands he went on without me.
Moody had so much cash that it was impossible to carry it all. He stuffed much of it into the pockets of his clothes hanging in the wardrobe of our bedroom. Now I understood why I saw people on the streets openly carrying wads of money five or six inches thick. There is no credit in Iran and no one paid by check. Both Moody and I lost all perspective of the relative value of this cash. It felt good to be rich, and we shopped accordingly.
We bought hand-embroidered pillowcases, handmade picture frames encasing twenty-two-carat-gold emblems, and intricate miniature prints. Moody bought Mahtob diamond earrings set in gold. He bought me a ring, a bracelet, and a pair of diamond and gold earrings.
He also bought me a special gift a gold necklace that cost the equivalent of three thousand dollars. I knew that it would be worth much more in the states.
We chose two entire rooms of furniture, fashioned of polished hardwood inlaid with intricate gold-leaf designs and upholstery of exotic tapestry. There was a dining room set as well as a sofa and chair for the living room. Majid said he would check on the procedures for shipping them back to America.
Moody's willingness to make this purchase did much to alleviate my fears. He was planning to return home. One morning as Zohreh prepared to take Mahtob and me shopping along with several other women relatives, Moody generously handed me a thick wad of uncounted rials. My special find that day was an Italian tapestry, about five feet by eight feet, that I knew would look gorgeous on our wall. It cost about twenty thousand rials, roughly two hundred dollars. By the end of the day I still had most of the money left, so I kept it for the next shopping trip.
Moody was spending money so freely I knew he would not care, or even notice. Almost every evening there was a celebration at the home of one or another of Moody's vast collection of relatives. Mahtob and I were always the outsiders, the curiosities.
The evenings were boring at best, but they provided us with a reason to leave Ameh Bozorg's awful home. It soon became apparent that Moody's relatives fell into two distinct categories.
Half of the clan lived like Ameh Bozorg, oblivious to squalor, contemptuous of western customs and ideals, and clinging to their own zealous brand of the Ayatollah Khomeini's fanatical Shiite sect of Islam.
The other half seemed a bit more westernized, more open to variation, more cultured and friendly, and definitely more hygienic. We enjoyed our visits with Reza and Essey. On his home turf Moody's nephew was friendly and gracious to me. Essey seemed to like me too. She used every opportunity to practice her modest English skills in conversation with me.
Essey and a few of the other relatives helped alleviate a measure of the boredom and frustration. I was an enemy. One evening, for example, we were invited "to the home of Moody's cousin Fatimah Hakim.
Some iranian wives assume their husbands' last names upon marriage, but most retain their maiden names. In Fatimah's case the point was moot, for she was born a Hakim and married a Hakim, a close relative. She was a warm person in her late forties or early fifties who dared to grace Mahtob and me with frequent smiles. She spoke no English, but during dinner on the floor of her hall she seemed very kind and solicitous.
Her husband, unusually tall for an Iranian, spent most of the evening mumbling prayers and chanting portions of the Koran while, all about us, the now-familiar din of chattering relatives assailed our ears. Fatimah's son was a strange-looking individual. He may have been nearly thirty-five years old, but he was barely four feet tall, with boyish features. I wondered if he was another of the many genetic aberrations I had seen in Moody's intermarried family.
During dinner this gnome like creature spoke to me briefly in English, with a precise, clipped British accent. Moody, Mahtob, and I followed him upstairs, where, to our surprise, we found a sitting room filled with American furniture. English books lined the wall. Fatimah's son ushered me to a seat in the middle of a low couch.
Moody and Mahtob flanked me. They assembled in a seating hierarchy, the highest place in the room reserved for Fatimah's husband. I shot a questioning glance at Moody.
He shrugged, not knowing what to expect either. Fatimah's husband said something in Farsi and the son translated, directing the question to me: "Do you like President Reagan? Other questions were fired at me in quick succession. What did you think of Carter's relations with Iran? Now I deferred, unwilling to be put in the spot of defending my country while trapped in an Iranian parlor. I've never been interested in politics. They pressed on. Now that you have been here awhile you understand that this is not true, that those are all lies?
This question was too ridiculous to ignore. I was ready to launch into a tirade against the oppression of women in Iran, but all around me hovered insolent, superior-looking men fingering their tassbeads and mumbling "AlIahu akbar," as women wrapped in chadors sat in quiet subservience.
I don't like being put on the witness stand. Moody was uncomfortable, caught between concern for his wife and his duty to show respect to his relatives. He did nothing, and the conversation turned to religion.
The son pulled a book off the shelf and wrote an inscription in it: "To Betty. This is a gift from my heart to you. It was a book of didactic pronouncements from Imam Ali, the founder of the Shiite sect.
This was still the major bone of contention between the Sunis and the Shiites. I tried to accept the gift as graciously as possible, but the evening ended on a discordant note. We had tea and left. Back in our bedroom at Ameh Bozorg's house, Moody and I argued. To my amazement, my own husband spouted the Shiite party line, contending that women have more rights than anyone else in Iran. I could not believe his words. He had seen for himself how Iranian women were slaves to their husbands, how their religion as well as their government coerced them at every turn, the practice exemplified by their haughty insistence upon an antiquated and even unhealthy dress code.
Several family members insisted that we visit one of the palaces of the former shah. When we arrived, we were separated by sex. I followed the other women into an ante-room, where we were searched for contraband and examined for appropriate dress.
I had on the mon toe and roosarie given to me by Ameh Bozorg, and thick black socks. Not an iota of leg was showing, but I still did not pass inspection. Through a translator, a matron informed me that I must also don a heavy pair of long pants. When Moody investigated to find the reason for the delay, he initiated an argument. He explained that I was a foreigner and did not have a pair of long pants with me. But this explanation was insufficient, so the entire party was forced to wait while Mammal's wife, Nasserine, went to her parents' home nearby to borrow a pair of pants.
Moody insisted that even this was not repression. No signs remained of the shah's existence, but the tour guide described wicked and wasteful wealth for us and then had us look Out over the neighboring slums and wonder how the shah could live in splendor while viewing the squalor of the multitudes.
We walked through bare halls, and peered into sparsely furnished rooms, as unwashed and unsupervised children ran amok. The major attraction seemed to be a booth selling Islamic literature. Although it was a meaningless experience, Mahtob and I were able to count it as one less day we had to remain in Iran. The time passed so slowly.
Mahtob and I ached to return to America, to normalcy, to sanity, in the midst of the second week of our vacation, Reza and Essey provided us with an opportunity to experience a touch of home.
One of Reza's fondest memories of his time with us in Corpus Christi was Thanksgiving. Now he asked if I would prepare a turkey dinner. I was delighted. I provided Reza with a shopping list and he spent an entire day gathering materials. The turkey was a scrawny bird with its head, feet, and most of its feathers still attached and the innards in place.
Essey's kitchen, though filthy, was nonetheless sterile in comparison to Ameh Bozorg's, and I labored there in relative contentment to create an American feast. Essey did not own a roasting pan. Indeed, she had never used the oven in her gas range. I had to chop the turkey into several large pieces and bake them in kettles. I kept Moody and Reza busy, shuffling back and forth between Essey's kitchen and Ameh Bozorg's kitchen, issuing precise cooking instructions.
I had to devise numerous substitutions. There was no sage for the dressing, so I used mar say a spicy herb, and fresh celery that Reza had found after several hours of searching through markets. I baked a facsimile of French bread to use for stuffing. I pushed the rare delicacy of potatoes through a colander with a wooden mallet that resembled a bowling pin; a final beating with the mallet turned the mush into mashed potatoes.
Each task was hampered by cultural differences. There were no dishtowels or pot holders; iranians are unaware of their existence. There was no wax paper or Saran Wrap; Iranians use newspaper. I had to guess at the oven temperature, for I could not decipher the metric numbers on the dial, and Essey, never having used the oven, was mystified also.
It took all day and I produced a turkey that was dry, stringy, and relatively tasteless. But Reza, Essey, and their guests loved it and I had to admit to myself that, compared to the dirty, oily fare we had been offered in Iran, this was, indeed, a feast.
Finally the last full day of our visit arrived. Majid insisted that we spend the morning at the Park Mellatt. This was fine. Majid was the one really likable member of Ameh Bozorg's household, the only one with a spark of life in his eyes. Majid and Zia who had so impressed me at the airport-were co-owners of a cosmetic manufacturing firm. Their principal product was deodorant, although it was never evident at Ameh Bozorg's house. The business world seemed to provide Majid with as much leisure as he desired, and he used his time to frolic with the multitude of children in the clan.
Indeed, he was the only adult who seemed to take any interest in children at all. Mahtob and I called him "the joker.
Majid, Moody, Mahtob, and me. It was the most enjoyable activity I could imagine for this final day of what had seemed like an endless two weeks. Mahtob and I were now counting the hours to our departure. The park was an oasis of green lawns adorned with flower gardens. Mahtob was overjoyed to find a place to frolic. She and Majid played happily, and ran on ahead. Moody and I followed slowly. How much more enjoyable this would be, I thought, if I could get rid of this ridiculous coat and scarf.
How I hated the heat and the overpowering stench of unwashed humanity that invaded even this Eden. How I loathed Iran! I was suddenly aware of Moody's hand clasping mine, a minor violation of Shiite custom. He was pensive, sad. I pulled my hand away from him, suspecting a trick, sensing danger, feeling the return of my fears.
We sat on the grass and spoke further. I saw in Moody's face evidence of the deep depression that had plagued him for the past two years. As a youth he had left his native country to seek his fortune in the West. He had labored hard, working his way through school, finally attaining his license as an osteopathic physician, and then completing a residency in anesthesiology. Together we had managed his practice, first in Corpus Christi, later in Alpena, a small town in the northern part of Michigan's lower peninsula.
We had lived well before the trouble began. Much of it was self-inflicted, although Moody tended to deny it. Some of the difficulties arose from racial prejudice; others from bad luck. Whatever the cause, Moody's income had plummeted and his professional pride was eroded severely.
We were forced out of Alpena, the town we loved so well. He had been at the Fourteenth Street Clinic in Detroit for more than a year, a job he took only after I goaded him into it. Now that, apparently, was gone too. But the future was far from gloomy.
Sitting in the park, wiping tears from my eyes, I tried to encourage him. Moody was inconsolable. His eyes grew dim and void, like those of so many other Iranians.
Late in the afternoon Mahtob and I began an exciting venture: packing! The one thing we wanted more than anything in the world was to go home. I never wanted to get out of any place so desperately. Only one more Iranian dinner to eat! I said to myself. Only one more evening among people whose language and customs I could not comprehend.
Somehow we had to find room in our luggage for all the treasures we had accumulated, but it was a joyous task. Mahtob's eyes shone with happiness. Tomorrow, she knew, she and her bunny would be strapped into an airplane seat for the trip home. Part of me empathized with Moody. He knew that I loathed his homeland and family, and I saw no reason to accentuate that fact by communicating the intensity of my joy that the vacation had ended. Nevertheless, I wanted him to get ready also. Glancing around the small, sparse bedroom to see if I had forgotten anything, I noticed him sitting on the bed, still preoccupied.
I looked at the suitcase full of prescription drugs that he had brought with him to donate to the local medical community. Baba Hajji and Ameh Bozorg's eldest son was a prosperous pharmacist. Off in the distance the telephone rang, but I was only vaguely aware of the sound. I wanted to finish the packing.
His Voice was soft, distant. His expression was contemplative. Before we could continue the conversation, Moody was called to the phone, and I followed him to the kitchen. The caller was Majid, who had gone to confirm our flight reservations. The two men chatted for a few minutes in Farsi before Moody said in English, "Well, you better talk to Betty.
As I took the telephone receiver from my husband's hand, I felt a shiver of apprehension. Suddenly everything seemed to fit together in a dreadful mosaic. I thought about his devil-may-care attitude toward spending our money.
What about the furniture we bought? Then I remembered that Majid still had not made arrangements to ship it to America. Was it an accident that Majid disappeared with Mahtob in the park this morning so that Moody and I could talk alone? I thought back to all of the clandestine conversations in Farsi between Moody and Mammal when Mammal was living with us in Michigan. I had suspected then that they were conspiring against me.
Now I knew that something was terribly wrong, even before I heard Majid say to me on the telephone, "You are not going to be able to leave tomorrow. Trying to keep the panic out of my voice, I asked, "What do you mean, we won't be able to leave tomorrow? You did not turn in your passports in time. There was a trace of condescension in Majid's voice, as if to say, you women especially you western women-will never understand how the world really works.
But there was something else, too, a cold precision to his words that sounded almost rehearsed. I did not like Majid anymore. I screamed into the phone. When I hung up the phone, I felt as if all the blood had drained from my body. I was devoid of energy. I sensed that this went far beyond a bureaucratic problem with our passports. I dragged Moody back into the bedroom. We will go on the next available flight. I was close to panic now. I did not want to lose my composure, but I felt my body begin to shake.
My voice rose in pitch and intensity, and I could not stop it from quivering. Get the passports. Get your things together. We are going to the airport. We'll tell them we didn't know about the three-day requirement and maybe they will let us get on the plane. If they don't, we are going to stay there until we can get on a plane.
Moody was silent for a moment. Then he sighed deeply. We had spent much of the seven years of our marriage avoiding confrontation. Both of us were accomplished procrastinators when it came to dealing with the deep and growing problems of our life together. Now Moody knew that he could delay no longer and I, before he said it, knew what he had to tell me. He sat down on the bed next to me and attempted to slip his arm around my waist, but I pulled away.
He spoke calmly and firmly, a growing sense of power in his voice. We are staying here. Even though I had expected the outcome of this conversation for several minutes, I could not contain my rage when I finally heard the words. I jumped from the bed. You knew the only reason I came here.
You have to let me go home! With Mahtob watching, unable to comprehend the meaning of this dark change in her father's demeanor, Moody growled, "I do not have to let you go home. You have to do whatever I say, and you are staying here. His screams took on a tone of insolence, almost laughter, as though he were the gloating victor in an extended, undeclared war.
Do you understand? You are not leaving Iran. You are here until you die. I lay on the bed in stunned silence, tears streaming down my face, hearing Moody's words as though they emanated from the far end of a tunnel. Mahtob sobbed and clung to her bunny. The cold, awful truth was stunning and crushing. Was this real? Were Mahtob and I prisoners? Captives of this venomous stranger who had once been a loving husband and father? Surely there must be a way out of this madness. With a sense of righteous indignation I realized that, ironically, Allah was on my side.
Tears of rage and frustration flowed from my eyes as I ran from the bedroom and confronted Ameh Bozorg and a few other family members who were, as usual, lounging about. No one seemed to understand, or care, what was bothering Moody's American wife. I stood there in front of their hostile faces, feeling ridiculous and impotent. My nose was running. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I had no handkerchief, no tissues, so, like anyone else in Moody's family, I wiped my nose on my scarf.
I screamed, "I demand to speak to the whole family right now! I spent several hours in the bedroom with Mahtob, crying, fighting off nausea, wavering between anger and paralysis. When Moody demanded my checkbook, I turned it over to him meekly. That explanation satisfied him, and he did not bother to search my purse. In the late hours of the night, after Baba Hajji had returned from work, after he had eaten his dinner, after the family had gathered in response to my summons, I entered the hall, making sure I was properly covered and respectful.
My strategy was set. I would rely upon the religious morality exemplified by Baba Hajji. At the sound of his name the old man glanced up briefly, then lowered his head the way he always did, piously refusing to look directly at me.
Hoping that my words were accurately translated into Farsi, I plunged ahead with my desperate defense. I explained to Baba Hajji that I had not wanted to come to Iran, that I was aware that when I came to Iran I was giving up rights that were basic to any American woman. I had feared this very thing, knowing that as long as I was in Iran, Moody was my ruler. I had come to meet Moody's family, and to allow them to see Mahtob. There was another far deeper and more horrifying reason I had come, but I could not dared not-put it into words and share it with Moody's family.
Instead, I related to them the story of Moody's blasphemy. Back in Detroit, when I had confronted Moody with my fear that he might try to keep me in Iran, he had countered with the single act that could prove his good intentions. How can you allow him to do this to me after he promised to the Koran?
Moody took the floor only briefly. He admitted to the truth of my story that he had taken an oath on the Koran. Baba Hajji's decision was swift and allowed for no appeal. Reza's translation declared: "Whatever Dabeejon's wishes are, we will follow. I felt a palpable sense of evil and I struck back with my tongue, even though I knew that argument was futile.
It was a trick. You have planned it for several months and I hate all of you! You did this under the authority of Islam because you knew I would respect it. Someday you will pay for this. God will punish you someday! The entire family seemed unconcerned about my plight. They traded conspiratorial glances with one another, visibly pleased to see the power Moody held over this American woman. Mahtob and I cried for hours before she finally fell into a sleep of exhaustion.
I remained awake all night long. My head pounded. I detested and feared the man who slept on the other side of the bed. In between us, Mahtob whimpered in her sleep, breaking my heart.
How could Moody sleep so soundly next to his tiny, troubled daughter? How could he do this to her? I, at least, had made choices; poor Mahtob had no say in the matter.
She was an innocent four-year-old caught amid the cruel realities of a strange, clouded marriage that somehow I still did not quite understand how became a melodrama, a sideshow in the unfathomable course of worldwide political events.
Strange as it seemed, the only way I knew to keep Mahtob out of Iran permanently was to bring her here temporarily. Now even that desperate course of action had failed. I had never been interested in politics or international intrigue. All I had ever wanted was happiness and harmony for my family. But that night, as my mind replayed a thousand memories, it seemed that what few sparks of joy we had experienced were constantly tinged with pain.
It was pain, in fact, that brought Moody and me together more than a decade earlier, pain that began in the left side of my head and spread quickly throughout my body. Migraines assailed me in February , bringing dizziness, nausea, and an encompassing sense of weakness. It hurt terribly just to open my eyes. Even a slight noise sent spasms of agony down the back of my neck and spine. The affliction was particularly troublesome because I believed that, at the age of twenty-eight, I was finally ready to begin an adult life of my own.
I had married impulsively, right out of high school, and found myself in a loveless union that ended in an extended, difficult divorce. But now I was entering upon a period of stability and happiness that was the direct result of my own efforts. Hired originally as a night billing clerk, I had worked my way up to the point where I was now in charge of the entire office staff and reported directly to the plant manager. My salary was sufficient to provide a comfortable, if modest, home for me and my sons, Joe and John.
I had found a rewarding volunteer activity helping the local Muscular Dystrophy Association coordinate the year-long activities that culminated in the Jerry Lewis telethon. The previous Labor Day I had appeared on television in Lansing. I felt good about myself and reveled in my new-found ability to handle my life independently. Everything pointed toward progress, toward the vague but real ambition I had set for myself as a teenager.
Around me was a community of blue-collar men and women who were satisfied with what I considered to be modest goals.
I wanted something out of life, perhaps a college degree, perhaps a career as a court reporter, perhaps my own business, perhaps who could tell? I wanted something more than the dreary lives I saw around me. But now the headaches began. For days my only ambition was to rid myself of the miserable, debilitating pain. Desperate for help, I visited Dr. Roger Morris, our long-time family physician, and that very afternoon he checked me into Carson City Hospital, an osteopathic facility about a half hour's drive west of Elsie.
I lay in bed in a private room with the draperies closed and the lights off, curled into the fetal position, listening in disbelief as doctors raised the possibility that I was suffering from a brain tumor. My parents drove from Bannister to visit me, bringing Joe and little John into the room, although they were under-age.
When our minister stopped by the next day, I told him I wanted to prepare a will. My case was baffling. Doctors prescribed daily sessions of physical therapy followed by a manipulation treatment, after which I was to be sent back to my dark, quiet room. Manipulative therapy is one of the major differences between osteopathy and the more well-known allopathic treatment provided by an M.
An osteopathic physician with a DO. DOs are licensed to practice medicine in all fifty states. They use the same modern modalities of medicine as allopaths, anesthesiologists, surgeons, obstetricians, pediatricians and neurologists, to name a few. However, an osteopathic physician assumes the holistic approach to medicine, treating the whole body. Manipulative therapy seeks to relieve pain naturally by stimulating the affected nerve points and relaxing tense, aching muscles.
It had worked for me in the past, easing the discomfort of various ailments, and I hoped it would be effective now, for I was desperate to find relief. I was in such agony that I paid little attention to the intern who came in to administer my first manipulation treatment. I lay face-down on a firm, padded table, absorbing the pressure as his hands pushed against the muscles of my back.
His touch was gentle, his manner courteous. He assisted me in turning onto my back so that he could repeat the treatment on my neck and shoulder muscles. The final point of the treatment was a quick, careful twist of the neck, producing a cracking sound, releasing gas from the vertebrae, bringing an immediate sensation of relief. While lying on my back I took a closer look at the doctor. He appeared to be about a half dozen years older than I -and that made him older than most interns.
Already he was beginning to lose some hair. His maturity was an asset, imbuing him with an air of authority. He was not particularly handsome, but his strong, stocky build was appealing. We do not guarantee that these techniques will work for you. Some of the techniques listed in Not Without My Daughter may require a sound knowledge of Hypnosis, users are advised to either leave those sections or must have a basic understanding of the subject before practicing them.
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