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New York Times bestselling author Khaled Hosseini says, “Set in post-revolutionary Iran, Sahar Delijani’s gripping novel is a blistering indictment of tyranny, a poignant tribute to those who bear the scars of it, and a celebration of the human heart’s eternal yearning for freedom.”
Neda is born in Iran’s Evin Prison, where her mother is allowed to nurse her for a few months before an anonymous guard appears at the cell door one day and simply takes her away. In another part of ...
New York Times bestselling author Khaled Hosseini says, “Set in post-revolutionary Iran, Sahar Delijani’s gripping novel is a blistering indictment of tyranny, a poignant tribute to those who bear the scars of it, and a celebration of the human heart’s eternal yearning for freedom.”
Neda is born in Iran’s Evin Prison, where her mother is allowed to nurse her for a few months before an anonymous guard appears at the cell door one day and simply takes her away. In another part of the city, three-year-old Omid witnesses the arrests of his political activist parents from his perch at their kitchen table, yogurt dripping from his fingertips. More than twenty years after the violent, bloody purge that took place inside Tehran’s prisons, Sheida learns that her father was one of those executed, that the silent void firmly planted between her and her mother all these years was not just the sad loss that comes with death but the anguish and the horror of murder.
These are the Children of the Jacaranda Tree. Set in post-revolutionary Iran from 1983 to 2011, this stunning debut novel follows a group of mothers, fathers, children, and lovers, some related by blood, others brought together by the tide of history that washes over their lives. Finally, years later, it is the next generation that is left with the burden of the past and their country’s tenuous future as a new wave of protest and political strife begins.
“Heartbreakingly heroic” (Publishers Weekly), Children of the Jacaranda Tree is an evocative portrait of three generations of men and women inspired by love and poetry, burning with idealism, chasing dreams of justice and freedom. Written in Sahar Delijani’s spellbinding prose, capturing the intimate side of revolution in a country where the weight of history is all around, it is a moving tribute to anyone who has ever answered its call.
Children of the Jacaranda Tree
Azar sat on the corrugated iron floor of a van, huddled against the wall. The undulating street made the car sway from side to side, swinging her this way and that. With her free hand, she clasped on to something that felt like a railing. The other hand lay on her hard, bulging belly, which contracted and strained, making her breathing choppy, irregular. A heat wave of pain spouted from somewhere in her backbone and burst through her body. Azar gasped, seizing the chador wrapped around her, gripping so hard that her knuckles turned white. With every turn, she was thrashed against the walls. With every bump and pothole, her body was sent flying toward the ceiling, the child in her belly rigid, cringing. The blindfold over her eyes was damp with sweat.
She lifted a hand and wiped the moisture from her eyes. She dared not remove the blindfold, even though there was no one with her in the back of the van. But she knew there was a window behind her. She had felt the glass when she first climbed in. Sister might turn around and see her through this window, or they could stop so abruptly that Azar would not have time to put the blindfold back on.
She didn’t know what would happen to her if they caught her with open eyes, and she did not wish to. At times she tried to convince herself that the fear that had crept inside her, cleaving to her, was not justifiable; no one had ever raised a hand to her, shoved her around, threatened her. She had no reason to be terrified of them, of the Sisters and the Brothers, no tangible reason. But then there were the screams that shook the prison walls, tearing through the empty corridors, waking the prisoners at night, cutting across a conversation as the prisoners divided up their lunch, forcing them all to a tight-jawed, stiff-limbed silence that lasted well through the evening. No one knew where the screams were coming from. No one dared ask. Shrieks of pain they were, this much they knew. For no one could confuse howls of pain with any other kind; they were cries of a body without a self, abandoned, crushed to a shapeless splotch, whose only sign of being was the force with which it could shatter the silence inside the prison walls. And no one knew when their turn would come up, when they would disappear down the corridor and nothing would remain of them but howls. So they lived and waited and followed orders under the looming cloud of a menace that everyone knew could not be eluded forever.
From a tiny opening somewhere above Azar’s head, the muffled din of the city waking up intruded into the car: shutters rolling open, cars honking, children laughing, street vendors haggling. Through the window, she could also hear the intermittent sounds of chatter and laughter coming from the front of the van, though the words were not clear. She could hear only the guffaws of Sister at something one of the Brothers had just finished recounting. Azar tried to keep out the voices inside the van by concentrating on the hum of the city outside—Tehran, her beloved city, which she had neither seen nor heard for months. She wondered how the city could have changed with the war with Iraq dragging on into its third year. Had the flames of war reached Tehran? Were people leaving the city? From the noises outside, it seemed as if everything continued as always, the same chaos, the same din of struggle and survival. She wondered what her parents were doing at this moment. Mother was probably in line at the baker’s; her father was probably getting on his motorcycle and leaving for work. At the thought of them, she felt like something was gripping her throat. She lifted her head, opened her mouth wide, and tried to gulp down the air seeping through the opening.
Her head thrown back, she breathed hard, so hard that her throat burned and she started to cough. She undid the tight knot of the headscarf under her chin and let the chador slide down her head. She held on to the railing, sitting stiffly, trying to bear the swaying and lashing of the car as another burst of pain blazed through her like the fiery end of a bullet. Azar tried to sit up; she bristled at the thought of having to give birth on the iron floor of a van, on these bumpy streets, with the shrill laughter of Sister in her ears. Tightening her grasp on the railing, she took a deep breath and tried to shut herself against the urge of erupting. She was determined to keep the child inside until they reached the hospital.
Just then she felt a sudden gush between her legs and held her breath as the uncontrollable trickle ran down her thigh. She pushed her chador aside. Panic swept through her as she touched the pants carefully with the tips of her fingers. She knew that a pregnant woman’s water would break at some point, but not what would happen after that. Did this mean birth was imminent? Was it dangerous? Azar had just started reading books on pregnancy when they came to her door. She was about to reach the chapter on water breaking, contractions, what she should pack in her hospital bag, when they knocked so loudly, as if they wanted to break down the front door of her house. When they dragged her out, her stomach was already beginning to show.
She clenched her jaw as her heart pounded violently. She wished her mother were there so she could explain what was happening. Mother with her deep voice and gentle face. She wished she had something of her mother that she could hold on to, a piece of clothing, her headscarf. It would have helped.
She wished Ismael were there so he could hold her hand and tell her that everything was going to be fine. He would have been frightened, she knew, if he had seen her in these conditions, sick with worry. He would have stared at her with his bright brown eyes as if he wanted to devour her pain, make it his own. There was nothing he hated more than seeing her in pain. The time she fell from the chair that she had climbed in order to pick grapes from the vine tree, he was so shocked, seeing her wriggling on the ground, that he almost cried, gathering her in his arms. I thought you had broken your back, he told her later on. I would die if something ever happened to you. His love made her feel like a mountain, unshakable, immortal. She needed that all-encompassing love, those worried eyes, the way in which, by taking it upon herself to reassure him, to calm him down, she always succeeded in reassuring herself too.
She wished her father were there so he could carry her to his car and drive like a madman to the hospital.
The van came to a stop, and Azar, shaken out of her thoughts, turned around sharply, as if she could see. Although the grumble of the engine had fallen silent, no door opened. Her hands crept up to her headscarf, tightening the knot, sweeping the chador over her head. Sister’s gales of laughter once again burst forth. Soon it became apparent that they were waiting for the Brother to finish telling his story. Azar waited for them, her hands trembling on the slippery edge of her chador.
After a few moments, she heard doors open and swing shut. Someone fiddled with the lock on the back of the van. Clinging to the railing, Azar lugged her body forward. She was at the edge of the car when the doors were drawn open.
“Get out,” Sister said as she fastened the handcuffs around Azar’s wrists.
Azar found that she could barely stand. She lumbered alongside Sister, engulfed in the darkness enveloping her eyes, her wet pants sticking to her thighs. Soon she felt a pair of hands behind her head, untying the blindfold, and saw that she was standing in a dimly lit corridor, flanked by long rows of closed doors. A few plastic chairs were set against the walls, which were covered with posters of children’s happy faces and a framed photo of a nurse with a finger against her lips to indicate silence. Azar felt a great lifting in her heart as she realized they had at last reached the prison hospital.
A few young nurses hurried past. Azar watched as they disappeared down the corridor. There was something beautiful about having her eyes out in the open, her gaze hopping hurriedly, freely, from the green walls to the doors to the flat neon lights embedded in the ceiling to the nurses in white uniforms and white shoes, fluttering around, opening and shutting doors, their faces flushed with the excitement of work. Azar felt less exposed now that she could see, and on equal ground with everyone else. Behind the blindfold, she had felt incomplete, mutilated, bogged down in a fluid world of physical vulnerability, where anything could happen and she could not defend herself. Now she felt as if, with one glance, she could shed the stunting fear that hacked away at her, that made her feel less than whole, less than a person. With open eyes, in the dim corridor surrounded by the bustle of life and birth, Azar felt she was beginning to reclaim her humanity.
From behind some of those doors came the muffled chorus of babies wailing. Azar listened carefully, as if, in their endless, hungry cries, there was a message for her, a message from the other side of time, from the other side of her body and flesh.
A nurse came to a halt in front of them. She was a portly woman with bright hazel eyes. She looked up and down at Azar and then turned to Sister.
“It’s a busy day. We’re trying to cope with the Eid-e-Ghorban rush, and I don’t know if there’s any room available. But come on up. We’ll have the doctor at least take a look at her.”
The nurse led them to a flight of stairs, which Azar climbed with difficulty. Every few steps, she had to stop to catch her breath. The nurse walked ahead, as if avoiding this prisoner with her baby and her agony, the perspiration glistening on her scrawny face.
They went from floor to floor, Azar hauling her body from one corridor to the next, one closed door to another. Finally, the doctor in one of the rooms motioned them in. Azar quickly lay down and submitted herself to the doctor’s efficient, impersonal hands.
The baby inside her felt as tense as a knot.
“As I said before, we can’t keep her here,” the nurse said once the doctor was gone, the door swinging shut silently behind her. “She’s not part of this prison. You have to take her somewhere else.”
Sister signaled to Azar to get up. Descending stairs, flight after flight, floor after floor, Azar clasped the banister, tight, stiff, panting. The pain was changing gear. It gripped her back, then her stomach. She gasped, feeling as if the baby were being wrung out of her by giant hands. For a moment, her eyes welled up, to her biting shame. She gritted her teeth, swallowed hard. This was not a place for tears—not on these stairs, not in these long corridors.
Before leaving the hospital, Sister made sure the blindfold was tied hermetically over her prisoner’s bloodshot eyes.
• • •
Back on the corrugated iron floor, the doors slammed shut. The van smelled of heat and violent suffering. As soon as the engine started, the chattering from the front picked up where it had left off. Sister sounded excited. There was a flirtatious edge to her voice and to her high-pitched laughter.
Back in position, Azar slouched slightly with fatigue. As the van zigzagged through the jarring traffic, she remembered the first time she took Ismael to her house. It had been a hot day, much like today. He smelled sweet, of soap and happiness, as he walked beside her down the narrow street. She wanted to show him where she came from, she had said, the house she lived in with its low brick walls, the blue fountain, and the jacaranda tree that dominated everything. He had been doubtful; what if her parents came back and caught him there? But he came anyway. Nothing but a quick tour, Azar promised, laughing, grabbing his hand. They ran from room to room, never letting go of that moment, of each other, of the perfume of the flowers that enfolded them.
She wondered where Ismael was, and if he was all right. It had been months since she’d had news of him, months when she did not even know if he was still alive. No, no, no. She shook her head repeatedly. She should not think about that. Not now. She had heard from some of the new prisoners that the men had also been transferred to the Evin prison. Most of the men. If they made it to Evin, it meant they had made it through the interrogations and everything else she did not dare think about at the Komiteh Moshtarak detention center. She was sure Ismael was one of those men. She was sure he was in Evin with her. He had to be.
Once again, the van came to a stop and the door swung open. This time, the blindfold did not come off. The sun shone feebly through it and into Azar’s eyes as she faltered out of the van, tottering alongside Sister and Brothers into another building and then down a corridor. They must have entered the labor ward of another hospital, for soon the sounds of women moaning and screaming filled her ears. Azar felt a rush of hope. Maybe now they would leave her to the safe hands of the doctors. Maybe the agony would be over. The blindfold slid down a bit on one side, and from the opening, she watched eagerly the gray tiled floor of the long corridor and the metal feet of chairs along the walls. She felt the brisk passing of people, perhaps nurses, their soft shoes thudding down the hallway. Their bodies moving past raised a quick breeze to her face.
Soon their course changed, and they were going up another flight of stairs. The sound of the women’s moans drifted. Azar cocked her ears and knew they were taking her away from the labor ward. The corners of her eyes twitched. When they finally came to a stop and a door opened, she was led into a room and told to sit down. She lowered herself onto a hard wooden chair, exhausted. Sweat dripped from her forehead and into her eyes as a rush of pain came back to claim her. Soon the doctor will be here, she thought, trying to console herself.
Yet, she quickly realized it was not a doctor she was waiting for when, from behind the closed door, came the slip-slap of plastic slippers approaching; the noise grew louder and louder. She knew what that sound meant, and she knew when she heard it that she had to prepare herself. She gripped the warm, sweaty metal of the handcuff and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping the slip-slap would stride right past her door and leave her alone. When it fell silent behind the door, Azar’s heart sank; they were here for her.
The door squeaked open. From underneath the blindfold, she had a glimpse of black pants and a man’s skinny toes with long pointy nails. She heard him dawdle across the room, pull a chair raspingly over the floor, and sit down. Azar’s body grew tense against the ominous being that she could not see but felt with every molecule of her body. The child inside her pushed and twisted. She winced, clasped into her chador.
“Your first and last name?”
In a quivering voice, Azar gave her name. She then said the name of the political party to which she belonged and the name of her husband. Another stab of pain and she crouched over, a whimper escaping through her mouth. But the man did not seem to hear or see. The questions continued to roll off his tongue mechanically, as if he were reading from a list he had been given but knew nothing about. There was aggressiveness in his voice that stemmed from the deep and dangerous boredom of an interrogator who had grown tired of his own questions.
The room was very hot. Under the coarse layers of her matneau and chador, Azar’s body was soaked in sweat. The man asked her the date of her husband’s arrest. She told him that and whom she knew and whom she didn’t. Her voice throbbed with agony as waves of pain blazed through her. I must keep calm, she told herself. I mustn’t make the baby suffer. She shook her head against the image that continued to crop up in her mind: that of a child, her child, deformed, broken, a sight of irreversible agony. Like the children of Biafra. She gave a grunt. Sweat trickled down her back.
Where were the meetings? the man asked. How many of them attended each meeting? As she gripped the chair against the fresh all-encompassing stabs of pain, Azar tried to remember all the right answers. All the answers she had given from one interrogation to the next. Not a date, not a name, not a piece of information or lack of it should differ. She knew why she was here, why they had thought that now was the perfect time to interrogate her, to get at her. Keep calm, she repeated to herself while she answered. As she omitted names, dates, places, meetings, she tried to remain calm by imagining her baby’s feet, hands, knees, the shape of the eyes, the color. Another wave of pain soared and crashed inside her. She writhed, shocked at its ferocity. It was pain she had never thought possible. She was losing herself to it. Fingers, knuckles, nostrils, earlobes, neck.
Where did she print the leaflets? She heard the man repeat the question. She tried to answer, but the contractions seemed to be swallowing her, not giving her a chance to speak. She lurched forward, grabbing the table in front of her. She heard herself moan. Belly button, black hair, curve of the chin. She took a deep breath. She felt like she was going to faint. She bit her tongue. She bit her lips. She could taste the blood blending into her saliva. She bit into her whitened knuckles.
But the outside world was quickly fading away as Azar’s pain grew worse. She could no longer hear anything, nor was she aware of what was around her. The waves of pain had hurled her into a space where nothing else existed, nothing except an agony so acute and unbelievable that it felt no longer part of her but a condition of life, a state of being. She was no longer a body; she was a space where everything writhed and wriggled, where pain, pure and infinite, held sway.
She didn’t know how long the man waited for her answer about the leaflets; it never came. She was only half-conscious when she heard him close what sounded like a notebook. She knew the interrogation was over. The sense of relief was almost dizzying. She didn’t hear the man get up but did recognize his slip-slapping away. Soon she heard Sister’s voice telling her to get up. Azar stumbled out of the room, down the corridor, flanked by Sister and someone who felt like a nurse. She could barely keep their pace. She lumbered along, bent almost double, breathing quickly. The handcuffs felt unbearably heavy on her wrists. They went down the flight of stairs. The sound of women’s wails once again filled Azar’s ears.
“Here we are,” the nurse said as they came to a stop.
Sister unfastened the handcuffs and took off Azar’s blindfold.
She climbed on a narrow bed in a roomful of nurses and a doctor. The wall on her right side was dazzled by the afternoon sun. In a lull between contractions, Azar sank heavily in her exhaustion, her arms lying slack on the bed, watching the smooth skin of sunlight as she submitted herself to the hands of the doctor checking her.
Sister stood next to the doctor, looking on in silence. Azar refused to look at her. She refused to acknowledge Sister’s presence there, wished to forget it completely. Not only Sister but everything Sister’s presence meant: Azar’s captivity, her solitude, her fear, giving birth in a prison. She was now a foreigner, surrounded by people who saw her as an enemy to be tamed and defeated, who saw her very being as an obstacle to their power, to their own understanding of right and wrong, moral and immoral. People who loathed her because she refused to take what they offered as what she had fought for; people who saw her as their foe because she refused to accept that their God had all the answers.
Azar wanted to close her eyes and pretend she was somewhere else, in another time, another place, another hospital room, where Ismael was standing next to her, caressing her face, looking at her with concern, holding her hand and not letting go, and her parents were outside, waiting, her father pacing up and down the corridor, her mother clasping her hospital bag between tense fingers, sitting on the edge of the chair, ready to careen into the room when needed.
Here, she could thrust her hand out and it would come back with nothing. Emptiness. She was completely alone.
“The baby’s turned.” She heard the doctor’s voice and looked down at her stomach. The taut lump that had appeared somewhere close to her belly button now looked as if it had climbed up to the space between her breasts.
The doctor turned to the two women behind her. “We have to push it down.”
Azar’s mouth went dry. Push it down? How? The women, who appeared to be midwives, moved closer, their wrinkled faces and hands reeking of the province, of remote villages at the bend of narrow muddy roads. They were holding torn pieces of cloth in their hands. Azar almost gasped with fright. What did they want with those torn pieces? What were they going to do? Gag her to keep her screams from reaching outside? The women looked at Sister, who grabbed one of the torn pieces of cloth and showed them how to tie Azar’s leg. Azar winced at the touch of those moist, callused fingers tethering her to the bed railings. The women looked hesitant but eventually went ahead with the job. One of them grabbed Azar’s legs, the other her arms. Azar jolted with a fierce thrust inside her. The lull was over; the pain had returned.
The doctor spread a blanket over Azar’s legs and leaned forward in front of her. “Here we go.”
After tying her down, the midwives interlaced their fingers and placed their hands somewhere close to Azar’s breasts. Azar watched them, helpless with pain, as her heart pounded wildly in her chest. She was frightened of them, of what they would do to her, to her child. Was this even a proper hospital? Who were these women, and where had they come from? Did they know what they were doing?
She heard herself groan. The women took deep breaths to prepare themselves, like boxers gathering their strength before a fight. Then, wide-eyed and prim-lipped, with those hands that perhaps had squeezed the swollen belly of a cow or tugged at the trembling legs of a lamb, they gave the lump, her child, a hard shove.
For a moment, Azar froze with the excruciating violence of that shove. Then a scream, wild and unknown, burst from her throat. A scream so forceful her entire body shook with its echo. She lurched forward, struggling to push the women away from her stomach, her child. Would they squeeze the child dead? Strangle it? Azar couldn’t move her hands but tried to thrust her neck forward to bite them as another lurch of pain dragged her back to the bed.
“Push!” the doctor demanded.
The lump was resistant. The women rammed their hands against it, their faces flushed with the pressure of those rough, interlaced fingers. Sweat glistened on their brows, along the lines of their noses. Their mouths twitched as they pressed.
Azar felt her body grow cold as another wail erupted through her. For a moment, she saw nothing. When her eyes cleared, she saw that one of the women was standing next to her. She was younger than the other, probably Azar’s age, in her early twenties. Her almond-shaped black eyes shone gently. “It’s okay,” she whispered encouragingly, placing her cold hand on Azar’s burning forehead. “We got the baby’s head down; now you just have to push.” As a fresh pain came, she said, “Your baby’s almost here.”
The woman smiled, but Azar looked at her with wild eyes. She didn’t know what it all meant, what the girl was telling her. There was something inside her that was pushing ahead, out of her control. She tensed and released another scream.
“That’s it, push. Another one.”
Sister grabbed Azar’s hand. “Scream! Call God! Call Imam Ali! Call them now, at least!”
The pain soared through Azar, cold and dark. She screamed and clasped the girl’s arm. She didn’t call anyone.
“It’s coming,” the doctor shouted. “Good girl, one more push!”
Something was being torn inside her. Torn open and apart.
With her last vestiges of strength, Azar gave one last push. Everything went black. From afar, she heard the weak cries of a baby fill the room.
• • •
The room was empty when she opened her eyes. A cold breeze wafting through the open window made her shiver. She was still tied down to the bed, and her legs had lost all sensation. Her damp hair lay pasted to her face; her feet hurt as if there was a layer of broken glass in them.
She had no idea how long she’d lain there. Hours, days, an eternity. Her eyes were eagerly, anxiously on the door. Where have they taken my baby? Soon the door creaked open and Sister sauntered in, gathering her black chador around her. Azar opened her mouth to say something, to ask of the child, but her lips were so dry that the corners of her mouth cracked. Behind Sister, the two midwives barreled in.
“Your daughter’s in the other room,” Sister said, as if she had read Azar’s mind, seen the question on her sore lips. “I don’t know when they’re going to bring her here.”
Azar closed her eyes. It’s a girl, she thought. An exhausted but triumphant smile trembled on her lips, yet she felt anxious at the same time. She was not sure if she should believe Sister. What if the child was dead and Sister was lying? What if this was just another cruel trick? What if those cries she had heard in the room had died as soon as they erupted? She looked over at the young midwife, who smiled and nodded. Azar had no choice but to believe.
The midwives rolled Azar’s bed out of the room, down the corridor, and into another room, where the window was closed. They untied her. There was something about these women’s faces that reminded Azar of the mothers of the children she taught in the villages on the outskirts of Tehran in the first year after the revolution. Quiet, obedient, standing next to their poorly dressed children, accepting everything Azar said. Their eyes full of admiration, of deference verging on fear of the city girl who opened and closed books so easily, who spoke in perfect Farsi, who looked out of place in her city clothes in the classroom with its clay walls that constituted the entire school.
Azar’s heart ached at the thought of those days, when she worked fervently for a new country, a better, more just country. How happy she had been, taking the bus back to Tehran in the evening. She had felt one with the city, seething and sizzling with excitement, with enthusiasm for what the present as well as the future held. She could not wait to arrive home, knowing Ismael would be expecting her in their tiny apartment. She remembered seeing the glow of the lamp in the living room seeping out through the curtains and the way it made her heart lift with joy. Night after night, that light, which meant Ismael was at home and she would soon be in his embrace, made her smile and her heart race as she rushed up the stairs. There would be the perfume of steamed rice filling in her nostrils as she entered the flat, and Ismael would come to her, pull her into his arms, and say, “Khaste nabaashi azizam.” May you never get tired. She would make tea, and while they drank it together, sitting by the narrow window that faced the trees of the courtyard engulfed in the night, he would tell her of Karl Marx and she would read him the poems of Forugh Farrokhzad.
Merely a year had passed since the revolution, and both Azar and Ismael still burned with its fervent ecstasy. It brought tears of joy to their eyes, and their voices cracked, full of emotion, when they spoke of their triumph, the triumph of a nation in ousting the shah, the once untouchable king; it filled them with hope. And yet they knew something had gone wrong. The men with the severe faces and mouths full of rage and hope and relentlessness and God who had taken over the country, claiming to be the deliverers of righteous words and holy laws, made them bristle. What is happening? She would turn at times to Ismael, desperate. Gradually, it was becoming clear to all that these men considered themselves the only legitimate proprietors of the revolution, its indubitable victors. They purged universities of what they called anti-revolutionary activities, closed newspapers, banned political parties. Their words became law, and everyone else went underground, Azar and Ismael with them.
Azar drew her arms and legs in. A tremor had taken hold of her, and she could not stop shaking. The young woman left the room to bring a blanket and cover her with it. Azar coiled into a lump underneath it, straining to absorb the heat from its every corner. They left the room, closing the door silently behind them.
Azar pulled the blanket over her head and tried to breathe in the warmth. She closed her eyes and rocked her body side to side, waiting for the heat to take root, for the calm to settle in. She stayed there under the blanket for a long time, a shapeless heap.
Gradually, as the warmth began oozing through her body, Azar poked her head out and then her shoulders. Next to her, on the other side of the room, there was an empty bed with ruffled sheets and a dip in the pillow. The body seemed to have been removed recently. On the floor next to the bed, there was a plate, the rice and green beans on it half-eaten. When it caught her eyes, Azar realized how hungry she was. She had not eaten since the night before. Her eyes were fixed on the plate as she tugged her legs free from the blanket. This was her chance. That plate had to be hers. She tried to stand up, but her legs trembled and her knees gave way. About to fall, she grabbed the side of her bed and cautiously lowered herself to the floor. Her heart beat hotly in her chest as she steadied herself on the cold tiles and began to crawl forward.
The closer she got to the plate, the bolder she got, the more determined to guzzle up every last grain of rice. She was going to eat, and she was going to do it without Sister’s permission. She was going to grab that plate and gobble everything up. To make it her own, part of her body, her being. She was going to possess it all, the rice, the beans, the plate itself. The thought even came to her to hide the plate somewhere and take it away with her, back to prison. She felt nauseated with hunger, with her brazenness, with the prospect of eating, with the fear of being caught before reaching that dish, that treasure, which was at that moment like life itself. She pressed her elbows against the floor and hauled herself over more quickly.
The rice was cold and dry, and as she gulped it down, she felt the sharp grains scratching her throat and thought of the buckets of food Sister would hand out to the prisoners at lunch hour. Her fingers worked fast, gathering the rice and the beans, lifting them to her mouth, her teeth that hurt, her tongue that could not taste anything. She chewed hurriedly, the grains spilling down her fingers. At any moment, this could all disappear and she could fall back into that reality where nothing was hers, neither to give nor to take. At any moment, Sister could walk into the room and take away the plate. But she could eat the food now. This was her moment.
• • •
The doctor in her white uniform smiled at Azar while checking her blood pressure. The bluish pouches under her eyes looked out of place in her round, welcoming face. Sister was standing on the other side of the bed, her arms free and unbound. She looked so comfortable in her black chador. They all did. Those Sisters. They walked, gestured, handed out buckets of food, tied blindfolds, locked and unlocked doors and handcuffs with such agility that it seemed as if the encumbering, slippery cloth did not exist, as if it weren’t wrapped around them like the wings of a sleeping bat. Azar knew better than to ask Sister about her baby too many times. If she showed too much enthusiasm, Sister might take longer to bring the child to her just to spite her, just to make her suffer. Azar had to be good; she had to be patient.
“She has a tearing inside that could get infected.” The doctor stopped inflating the cuff around Azar’s arm. “She must stay for at least two days.”
Sister tossed her head in a clumsy attempt to seem haughty. Azar could see somewhere in Sister’s large eyes, in the thick fold of her lower lip and the missing tooth revealed in a rare smile, the poverty of the dust-blown peripheries, of languid afternoon gossip with the neighboring women on doorsteps, of watching boys play soccer in dusty streets and wishing for a color TV, of not continuing beyond fifth grade. And here she was, that woman of the poor peripheries, the queen of the plebeian, spreading her big black chador over the city and its privileged city girls. Sister was slowly learning to be proud of that poverty, just as she had learned to be proud of her chador.
“We have everything there,” Sister asserted in a cold, flat voice. “We can take care of her.”
Under the covers, Azar’s bony hand edged across the bed. When she reached the doctor’s leg, she pinched the flesh with all her might.
“We have to kill the bacteria inside her.” The doctor looked directly at Sister. She betrayed no reaction to Azar’s pinch. “That’ll take a few days.”
“No, we can do it there. We have everything. Doctors. Hospital. Medicine.”
Azar wanted to shout out that they didn’t, that Sister was lying, that they would leave her with the tearing inside her, that the infection would spread, that she would rot from the inside. She pinched the doctor’s leg again, harder than before. Almost clinging.
“I’m telling you that she needs care, professional care, inside a hospital,” the doctor insisted. She seemed to understand the meaning behind Azar’s pinches. “We have to monitor her condition. She’s been torn inside.”
Sister hurled an angry glance at Azar, as if the tearing inside her had been her own fault. Azar’s hand went limp on the edge of the bed. Sister beckoned to the doctor to follow her outside. Before the doctor moved away from the bed, Azar grasped her hand. “My baby?” she whispered.
The doctor placed a hand on top of Azar’s desperate clasp. “She’s fine. Don’t worry. You’ll have her soon.”
• • •
Azar sat on the bed, staring at the door, waiting for the baby who did not come. She clasped her hands together, quivering with anger, frustration, longing, and fear. As the hours passed, she was beginning to lose patience. After nine long months of living with the child inside her, feeling it grow, protecting it, surviving with it, it seemed impossible that she still had not seen it, had not held it in her arms, did not know if it looked more like her or Ismael, did not even know for sure if it was alive. As the minutes crawled by and she watched the door, Azar felt the yearning for her child mounting inside her so powerfully that she could hardly breathe.
The afternoon sunlight was petering out, dragging its shadows against the walls. Azar clambered onto the windowsill to lift herself up and look through the closed glass. She wanted to know where she was. Through the sparse, grayish leaves of the sycamore trees, she saw a bridge clogged with afternoon rush-hour traffic. The sky was laden with smog; it was the last heat of the summer, and there was the edgy echo of car honks. She saw a flight of birds soaring through the sky, making a great loop and perching on the branches of the trees. The city looked different. Everything seemed to have been whitewashed, stainless, glossy. The white had been splashed on concrete buildings hurriedly, as if to hide something: blood, soot, history, the war, the unending war. It was a frenzied attempt to camouflage the devastation that breathed ever more closely down everyone’s neck.
Although Azar had not been born here, Tehran had always been her home, where she had felt she belonged. She loved the city, with its traffic and its soiled white buildings and its overpowering chaos. She loved it so much that she’d once believed she could change its destiny. That was what she told Ismael when she informed him of her decision to continue her political activity. This is not what we fought for, what we risked our lives for, she said, we cannot let them take everything away from us.
Ismael came along with her, hand in hand, at every stage. Whatever we do, we shall do it together, he said. Whatever happened to them, it would be their shared destiny. He was quickly, readily infused with her fervor. He went with her to the underground meetings in stuffy rooms, helped her print leaflets, carry messages in cigarette packets, spoke of the future at his university. When it was time, when the persecutions began and it was too dangerous to keep contact with their families, they stopped calling and answering their parents’ phone calls, stopped visiting them. They shed tears together, desperate, no longer certain what was the right thing to do. No longer having the strength to move forward and knowing it was too late to turn back. The door of their apartment became menacing, glaring at them askance, expecting responses to the unuttered questions that their parents impressed upon it with their persistent knocks. That was when they decided to move and hence wipe out their traces forever. It was easier that way. No one would be knocking on the door anymore. Cut off, they found it easier to pretend to forget.
Was it worth it? Azar wiped the strands of hair away from her face. Would Ismael ever forgive her for putting her fight before everything? Before him, their life together, the child growing in her womb? Would they be given a second chance?
The thoughts agitated her. She pressed her thin elbows against the windowsill and her forehead against the warm window. The traffic huffed and puffed slowly across the bridge. Although far from them, Azar could see the tiny, agitated faces in the cars, the restless bodies impaled on the motorbikes with not enough space to maneuver through the jam. Above the traffic, hovering overhead like a gigantic cloud, was a billboard with one of the maxims of the Supreme Leader written in careful, elegant cursive. Our revolution was an explosion of light. Painted next to it was the depiction of an explosion, like fireworks.
On the sidewalk, underneath the billboard, a man was standing and staring at the cars, dazed. He looked tired, much older than his age. The sun struck at his sallow, haggard face. When Azar saw him, her heart skipped a beat. She felt her face light up. She opened her mouth, flabbergasted.
“Pedar!” she screamed, banging on the window with her open palm.
Her father didn’t hear her. Or look up. He put the bags down on the ground and slipped a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe the sweat off his forehead. His wiry body looked hunched by something that was not age.
Azar’s face twitched and twisted. Never in the months of prison had she felt her father to be so far, so unreachable. Never had she felt so alone, so afraid of what was to become of her.
“Pedar!” she cried out with the last vestiges of strength left in her. Her voice was nothing but a throaty whimper. It barely traveled beyond the thick glass of the window.
Her father picked up the bags and began walking away, never lifting his head. Azar watched, wide-eyed, panting as his tall, stooped body dwindled into the hazy afternoon light. He got on his motorbike and rode away.
The traffic began moving. Azar’s hand lay motionless on the window, against the reflection of shabby leaves and empty nests and a black billboard that spoke of light.
• • •
The next time the door swung open, Sister was alone. The child was not with her. Neither were the midwives or the doctor. With stunned eyes, Azar watched Sister carrying her clothes. She was still shaken. The image of her father, his hunched body, his tired face, spiraled through her mind. Sister put Azar’s clothes down on the bed. Azar inquired in a faint voice where her baby was.
“We’ll get her on our way out,” said Sister, and Azar realized that the doctor’s insistence had been in vain. Sister had won. It was time to go.
Sister’s foot hit the empty plate and made it rattle noisily on the floor. She was standing directly in front of Azar, her eyes fixed on her. “Have you seen Meysam?” she asked.
“Meysam?” Azar knew who Meysam was. He was the Brother who told stories in the car, the recipient of Sister’s prurient guffaws. Azar had seen Sister, visibly older than he, frustrated yet unrelenting, following him around in the dark corridors of the prison and the concrete-laden courtyard. She had heard the ring of that laughter across the hall. She had seen Sister bring him gifts: plates of food, woolen gloves. She had seen her bribe the younger man, the young Brother, in a desperate hope to lay claim to his body.
“The tall Brother with the big brown eyes. The good-looking one.” Sister’s linear eyebrows pulled into an excited frown. “He was there with us earlier. Haven’t you seen him?”
Azar stared back at Sister. It dawned on her that Sister’s insistence on leaving the hospital today had nothing to do with security, with regulation, or with protocol. It had nothing to do with Azar’s life or death. It was simply due to Sister’s lust; she wanted to be with Meysam.
“No, I think he’s gone,” Azar lied. She could barely remember anything. She might have even seen him. But in that moment, as she looked at the spinster’s face sprinkled with the irregular shadows of the sycamore leaves as she readied to lock the handcuffs again, disappointing her gave Azar a pleasant thrill.
Once they were out in the corridor, Sister left momentarily to retrieve the child. Barely able to stand, Azar lowered her shaky body onto one of the white plastic chairs that lined the empty hallway. Naked bulbs hung from the ceiling, giving off a feeble, hazy light. Her eyes burned.
From a few doors down, an elderly woman stepped out, closing a door carefully behind her. She stood looking at the posters on the wall in front of her, her hands folded on top of each other. She was wearing a knee-length navy blue manteau and a white headscarf and seemed to be waiting for something or someone. A child, a grandchild. She looked oddly neat and unperturbed in her grim surroundings.
She sat down and placed her brown leather bag with its worn-out strap on her knees. She stole a glance at Azar only to immediately avert her gaze. It hurt, how she looked away. There was fear in those gray-green eyes. And foreboding. Was there something in Azar’s face that spoke of her destination? Was there something in her face that warned of iron doors and handcuffs and interrogation rooms? Life inside the prison walls was no different from existence beyond. Everyone carried fear, like a chain, carrying it in the streets, under the familiar shadow of the sad, glorious mountains. And in carrying it, they no longer spoke of it. The fear became intangible, unspeakable. And it ruled over them, invisible and omnipotent.
Azar looked at her own loose gray pants, at her black chador, half of it dragging, sweeping the floor. The prisoners were not as skilled with the chador as the Sisters. They fussed and fumbled with it, like children trying to put clothes on a doll for the first time—a broken doll with a hanging arm and dead legs. The chadors dragged on the ground half of the time.
Azar gathered her chador about her, pulled it over her face, and hid her handcuffed hands under it. Under the protection of the chador, she touched her bony cheeks, her small chin. She must be looking gaunt. An unwanted specter. An image emerged in her mind. Of herself, leaflets in hand, running down a deserted street, the roar of the Revolutionary Guards’ patrol shaking the air behind her. She remembered how her heart raced, like it was no longer part of her body, like it had a life and a speed of its own, as she hid behind a car. She remembered the pothole in the asphalt, the candy wrapper that floated away in the drain next to her feet, a glimpse of the oilcloth covering on the table printed in yellow roses behind a window of a house, the smell of hot steel, the violent, explosive thumping in her temples.
It all felt like it was centuries ago. That day with its cloudless sky. Who was she then? What had happened to that Azar, with her determined voice and swift feet and the doubts about where all of this was going, which she never voiced, not even to Ismael.
At the sound of approaching footfalls, she lifted her head. The old woman was standing in front of her.
“Are you okay, dokhtaram?”
Azar looked at the woman, taken aback. She was tongue-tied. She had not expected the woman to approach her. The thought of speaking to someone outside the prison shook her.
“You look pale,” the woman commented.
In the woman’s manner of speaking, Azar immediately recognized the Tabrizi accent, just like her mother’s, the same weightless cadence, as if they were tiptoeing on the words when they spoke Farsi. She opened her mouth to reply, but her eyes brimmed over with tears.
“I’m waiting for my daughter,” she said, her voice tangling up in her throat. The image of her mother washing her face with the cold water of the fountain, preparing for the Morning Prayer, rushed through her mind.
“Where is she? Is she in the babies’ ward?”
Tears streamed down Azar’s face. She didn’t know when, how, where they had come from. It was as if a dam had broken inside her and tears were gushing down, engulfing everything. Her body shook at the force of sobs she was trying to hold back.
“Don’t cry, azizam, why are you crying?” the woman repeated in a distressed, surprised voice. “Nothing to cry about. Your baby is out. Inshallah, she is healthy and beautiful, like you, although you should eat more. You’re too thin. You have to feed two people now. In these times of war, we must stay strong. If we stay strong, not even Saddam can bring us to our knees.” The woman spoke in a soft voice as she wiped away Azar’s tears with the end of her white headscarf. Tears that seemed to have no end only flowed and flowed like waterfalls.
“Why don’t you go and get your daughter?” The woman’s eyes glittered with the apparent hope that the idea would distract Azar, put an end to her tears.
“Sister went to get her.” Azar sniffled, bending her head low into her chador to wipe her face.
“Oh good, your sister is here,” the woman said enthusiastically. “You’re not alone. That’s good.”
“She is not my sister. We just call her Sister. She is—” Azar stopped.
The old woman waited for her to complete the sentence. Then it seemed as if something changed in the color of her eyes. A thought, fear, the unspeakable scuttled across them. Her thin wrinkled face fell. There was no longer that determination to bring a halt to Azar’s tears, to speak to her of her daughter. She placed a hand on Azar’s head.
“I see,” she said finally. It looked like she wanted to say more; her gray-green eyes looked laden with words, with questions. But she did not. She kissed Azar on the forehead and quietly walked away as Sister appeared at the end of the corridor, holding a tight red bundle in her arms.
Forgetting the old woman, Azar rose to her feet. There was something excruciatingly wrong with the image before her. Her child in the arms of Sister, her wardress. Azar felt a rush of desperation so powerful that it left her weak. But no, she should not think about that. There was her child coming to her. She had been lucky. Her child was alive. Nothing else mattered at that moment.
She curled her fingers into a fist and watched Sister getting closer. Excitement battered through her. She could not get her eyes off the bundle in Sister’s hands. Her frustration, her anger, was being swamped over by an acute sense of tenderness, of protection. She stretched her arms out toward her child, trembled with the prospect of holding her. But as Sister got closer, Azar saw more clearly what kind of blanket the child had been wrapped in. It was a rough prison blanket, and her child was naked. Azar winced at the sight of her child unprotected against the coarseness that clamped its teeth into the fragile newborn skin. She stood with her arms outstretched but could not speak. She knew if she opened her mouth, nothing would come out but a shrill, twisted wail.
“You’re still too weak,” Sister said as she strutted to the elevator. “You’ll drop her.”
Azar dropped her arms. She could not tear her eyes from the bundle. She imagined snatching it away and racing off down the corridor and into the streets and across the bridge, where, somewhere under the shadow of a tree, her father would be waiting for her.
Sister’s face lit up when she looked at something or someone down the hallway. Azar followed her gaze. It was Meysam walking up to them, his slippers proudly slapping the tiled floor. His white polyester shirt hung loosely over his black pants. He walked slowly, his head held high, adhering fully to his role of the guardian of the revolution, omnipotent in his intentionally modest clothing. The beard he insisted on wearing was sparse. Not an adult beard yet. His gait was that of a boy who seemed to have just won a war. And at that moment, the thought flashed through Azar’s mind that soon he and so many like him would be sent to that other war blazing along the borders of the country. It would be soon, for the country had nothing but bodies to defend itself with, and bodies were going to be sent, more and more every day. Bodies that might never return. Azar blinked, looking at Meysam, the thought filling her with despair.
Next to her, Sister snatched one of her hands away from underneath the child to tug a strand of hair inside her scarf. She lowered her gaze to the ground in a ghastly act of timidity. Azar looked apprehensively at Sister’s uncontrolled arms. With every move Sister made, Azar’s hands shot forward for her child, lest Sister, gripped by passion, dropped her.
“Salaam Baraadar,” Sister said, beaming. “I thought you’d already left.”
“I’m still here. Are you ready to go?” Meysam asked, calling the elevator.
“Yes, with the help of God, it is all finished.”
Along with Meysam, another man walked into the elevator. When his gaze met Azar’s, his jaundiced eyes widened with recognition and astonishment. Azar hurled a glance at Sister, who, having forgotten her scripted coyness, had turned her body away from Azar while speaking animatedly to Meysam. Azar edged closer to the man, whose appearance had changed since the last time she had seen him. His face had hardened. His beard made him look old and severe. He had buttoned up his white polyester shirt all the way to his Adam’s apple, as the dress code for the pious demanded. Just like Meysam, he wore plastic slippers.
As she slunk closer to him, Azar wondered if he still lived next to her parents’ house on that dead-end street, if he still went over to their house for the evening tea, if he still informed her father of available government coupons for sugar and vegetable oil, which were becoming harder to find as the war continued. Or had becoming a man of the revolution, with his authoritative beard and plastic slippers and hardened face set him apart?
There was shock in his eyes as he looked at her. Obviously, her parents had not told him about her arrest. Azar was not surprised. They had been afraid. How could they not be? She shuddered at the thought of how her parents may have found out. She imagined the Revolutionary Guards swarming into their house, asking questions, threatening. And her parents in the corner, shaking as they slowly understood, while they watched the mayhem around them, why Azar had disappeared for so long.
Azar held the man’s bewildered gaze with hers. “I’m fine. Tell them I’m fine.”
Boggled, the man nodded. Another of Sister’s guffaws dovetailed Azar’s whisper. It spun through the closed elevator, bouncing off the walls and the neon lights.
Azar turned to Sister. “Let me hold her. I can handle it.”
Sister hesitated before she placed the coarse bundle in Azar’s arms. The child was sleeping. Tiny breaths hovered over the pink parting of her mouth. Azar wished to squeeze her to her heart, that small, soft body. She wanted to squeeze her so that the pressure would make it real. The mouth, the pink wrinkled skin, the black fuzz covering the forehead.
She was too weak. She only held the baby, feeling the tough skin of the blanket scratching her palms. It barely enclosed the child’s body. Azar felt a rush of sorrow and guilt rise up the column of her body. What had she done by bringing a child into this world, where not the mother but the wardress first held her?
She hid her face inside the bundle and inhaled the sweet aroma of her child. She kissed her forehead and her shoulders and her chest. She kissed and inhaled deeply, glutting herself with the proximity of her body, asking for forgiveness. The child made a tiny move with her shoulder and opened her eyes.
Black as the night. The whites of her eyes looked almost blue. She opened and closed her mouth and looked around. Azar watched her with bewilderment, those large eyes that rolled around the elevator with a gaze so penetrating, it seemed she wanted to arrest someone. It was almost frightening. That gaze, that sharp look in her child’s black-and-blue eyes—severe, unsparing, much like Sister’s. Her heart almost skipped with fright. Azar lifted a tremulous hand and held it over her daughter’s eyes.
• • •
There was an effusive buzz in the cell, with its walls that glistened because so many heads and backs had rubbed against them. The buzz that could happen only once—when life was about to change shape.
Seething with excitement, the women awaited the arrival of the newborn. They had cleaned everything, scrubbed the walls, washed the carpets. That day, no one had been allowed to exercise, lest they raise dust. One of the corners was decorated with all the windblown leaves found in the courtyard, gathered in an empty aluminum jar. The iron bars of the window cast thick linear shadows on the lemon-yellow headscarf that hung as a curtain.
The women had carried their excitement around with them all day. They were restless, barely able to stay put. Since daybreak, when Azar was first removed with her taut, throbbing belly, the women, unable to hide their glee, had grown nicer to one another. The hostile silence had burst open and words were spurting out, even between enemies who had despised each other’s political parties and thus each other. They seemed to have put a pause on the wrathful rivalry and the usual sinking into ideological lagoons, suspending for at least a day their belief that the other was to blame for a revolution gone astray.
Good morning! they said to each other without reserve.
Their usually haggard, dismal faces were aglow with anticipation. It was not their shower day, but they preened nevertheless, braiding each other’s hair, singing songs. They were all wearing their best clothes, as if it were the New Year. Packed away and unworn for months, the garments hung awkwardly over their bony shoulders and shrinking breasts. They constantly ran their hands over the fabric to unfold the creases.
That day, even Firoozeh could not contain her happiness. Her usual nervous ranting had come to a halt. Everyone in the cell knew Firoozeh had become a tavaab, a snitch, because she had been able to spend a night with her husband and had received a pillow softer than anyone else’s. But that day, even Firoozeh seemed unwilling to betray the peaceful elation that had descended on them. She barely exchanged a word with the Sisters. Instead, she spoke to everyone of her own daughter, Donya. She spoke of how she had left Donya with her family when she was arrested. She spoke of the tears she shed night after night for not being able to see her. Once released, she would take Donya away with her and leave Iran. Leave and never look back, she said, frowning as if thinking of a bad dream.
At the sound of footsteps and the muffled cry of a child, they all ran to the door. They laughed, clapped, and patted one another excitedly on the shoulder. Joyful shouts erupted, like the happy cries bursting forth at weddings, when the door opened and Azar walked in with her bundle. Sister frowned, shouting at them to quiet down.
Azar laughed when she saw them, when she saw their best clothes, the scrubbed walls, the scarf curtain. Her body reverberated with their cries of joy. Surrounded by their happiness, she forgot about everything. She forgot the sharp gaze in her child’s eyes. Forgot the pain, her torn insides, the fear, the guilt. She felt suddenly, unexpectedly, at home.
They clustered around her with glimmering eyes and expectant hands, their voices mingling, colliding, interlocking. They passed the child from one embrace to another, their bodies growing warm holding her, wishing to cradle her longer, reluctant to pass her on to where another pair of hands itched to hold her.
Hold on to her.
Then they saw her nakedness, the roughness of the blanket, and their hearts sank. But they said nothing. They unwrapped the blanket and swaddled her in a soft chador with tiny daisies.
They looked at the child and at Azar’s eyes. If they concentrated enough, they could see the fear that still hung from her eyelashes, the disbelief that lay on her chapped lips: her child was alive, she was alive.
They brought the fresh bowl of water they had been keeping in the corner next to the stray leaves in the aluminum jar and washed her face.
“It’s over,” they said, and rubbed her hands. “You’re safe now. You’re with us.”
They massaged her shoulders. They feared for her so much that they closed their eyes so as not to see how she had been torn inside.
“What’s her name?” asked Marzieh, the youngest of them all, as she took the bundle cautiously from Firoozeh.
Azar took a deep breath. “Neda,” she said, and involuntarily clasped her hands together.
She mouthed the name a few more times. Each time, the child grew more solid in her reality. Each time, the memory of that severe gaze faded further away. Each time she said the name, the child became more hers, entirely hers. There was a magical hand at work that reconciled her with the child, with her surroundings, with time, with herself. She felt no longer to blame. Instead, she was filled with a feeling so empowering, so unwavering, that it could only be called love.
• • •
They were sitting and watching the white handkerchief rise and fall to the rhythm of Neda’s breathing. In the corner of the cell, Firoozeh was exercising, jumping up and down, parting her legs and arms like scissor blades, her face flushed. There was little air in the cell, so she panted heavily.
Azar had placed the handkerchief on top of the child’s face to keep her from inhaling the dust raised by Firoozeh.
“I’m sure they’ll organize a meeting with your husband before they send her out,” Marzieh said in a dreamy voice, and lifted her green eyes to the child’s few pieces of wash hanging on the rope above them.
A month had passed. The pinkness of the child’s face was petering out. The wrinkles were unfurling. The unsteady gaze of her eyes had become more stable. And the milk, which was watery at first, had begun to thicken.
Azar basked in her newfound motherhood. She carried her swollen breasts around gloriously. Even in the interrogation room, she felt a thrill as her breasts swelled with milk. As if somehow they protected her, made her strong, invincible. The warm liquid oozed out of her nipples as the interrogator repeated the same questions in a different order, hoping to catch her at something, at what, he seemed not to know himself. She would barely listen to him. Instead, she would hand herself fully to the warm seeping of her body that craved the child, sweet and sticky like the nectar of a tree. We all have a tree inside us. She remembered Ismael’s words. Finding it is just a matter of time.
For the others, Neda had become their main entertainment. They seemed not to get enough of the child. They would surround Azar and watch her with her baby and the child’s pink lips. They watched the child’s every move, every struggle for milk and air, every wail, every closing and opening of her tiny fist around their fingers. They admired her with their lonely eyes and mouths full of compliments. They gathered around her as if she were their shrine. They asked to hold her, to watch over her when she slept, to clean her mouth when she sneezed.
Life in the small cell had changed. It was no longer about following the crowlike Sisters to interrogation rooms or picking up the corpse of a fly from the floor and having to wait until bathroom time to throw it away. Nor was it about the loudspeakers that emitted the call to prayer five times a day. Or the screams of agony and breaking down coming from closed rooms that everyone heard yet no one spoke about.
Life was different now. It was about a child.
And the longer Neda stayed, the more brazen they all got. They made clothes for her from their own prayer chadors. She’ll be growing so fast in these months, they said. They exempted Azar from washing dishes so that she could use the few minutes to wash diapers. They washed the child in a basin of warm water. They read letters for her. They played with her. They sang songs for her.
Everyone dreaded being transferred to another cell or prison. They did not wish to leave this cell, where a child’s voice rang like a siren of life. Their world was now one with coming and going, breathing and eating, draining and suckling. A world that meant something, that was no longer a black hole.
They all knew it would not last. Every day could be the last day. They all knew it. Azar knew it. She had to be ready when the day came.
Hardly a month, and the child had already become the only thing on her mind. Everything else seemed to have lost importance. The child and her own passionate, protective tenderness. She had even begun to fret over the way some of the women held her. Not the right way, she would say, running to them, gathering all her strength not to shout at them to put her child down. They had to be careful. The baby’s neck is still so soft. And she would take Neda from them, basking in the rush of emotion as she laid the child’s tiny body against her chest, holding her neck and head gently in the palm of her hand. No one knew how to be good to the child, no one like her.
This was dangerous, she knew. She had to stop. She had to start learning how to let go. The child did not belong to her, could be taken away at any moment. She had to be ready. But how could she?
“Maybe they’ll let you take the child to your parents yourself. You’ll have a day to visit and leave her with them,” said another as she fiddled with a loose button on her shirt.
Azar listened with a sad, skeptical smile. She could hear the slip-slap of slippers passing through the corridor, chadors sweeping past the door, chattering voices bouncing back and forth.
“None of this is going to happen,” she said, trying to keep her voice as flat as possible. She lifted a hand to check if the clothes were dry. The rope was low. There was no need to get up. She pulled down the shirt with its tiny blue flowers and began folding it.
Of the clothes her parents—she did not how and when they had been informed about the birth—had sent Neda, only a few had reached her. Those and a bag of tea. Azar was sure they had sent more. She was not convinced by Sister’s words that those were the only gifts her parents had been able to put together. Every time she went to the interrogation room, from underneath her blindfold, she could see a large bag abandoned by the bathroom door. Azar was sure that bag was hers. She was sure it was filled with toys and soap and diapers and clothes for her child. But no one gave her the bag. She waited for it every day, until one day it was no longer there.
“The day they decide I’ve had enough, they’ll just open the door a little and take her away.” She opened her hands slightly to show the narrowness of the opening.
Groans of disagreement gyrated round the room. Azar and her fastidious pessimism.
Under the handkerchief, Neda made a small noise and moved her head. All the women turned toward her. Neda had woken up.
She began letting out hungry wails as Azar removed the handkerchief and lifted her into her arms. She offered her heavy breasts proudly to the steady suckling of the pink mouth.
“But who says they’re going to take her away?” said Parisa, who sat close to where Firoozeh was exercising. She was Firoozeh’s only friend in the cell. They had known each other since high school, she had told the other prisoners. Like Firoozeh, Parisa had a child, a son, Omid, whom she had left with her parents and sister. She was pregnant with her second child when arrested. Even though Parisa knew of Firoozeh’s having become a tavaab, she did not let the fact alter their friendship. Parisa never left Firoozeh’s side. I knew her before prison, she once said when confronted by others. I know she is good inside. She is only vulnerable, not strong enough for prison.
Azar too knew Parisa. She had met her at the wedding celebration for Behrouz, Ismael’s youngest brother. Parisa was the bride’s sister. That was one of the last times Azar and Ismael had attended a family gathering.
What about Behrouz and his wife, Simin? Azar had asked Parisa on the first day, happy to see someone she knew, reassured. Both Simin and Behrouz had been arrested, Parisa informed her. She knew Simin was in another cell, but of Behrouz, she had no news. Behrouz with his lean hefty body, well-shaped eyebrows, and loud laughter. What had become of him?
“I heard of a woman who kept her child for a year, until she was released,” Parisa continued, her large eyes glittering, perhaps with the hope of keeping her own child when it was born.
Everyone turned to look at her, wide-eyed. “Really?”
“That’s what I’ve heard. Maybe you don’t have to send her away if you don’t want to.”
Joyous voices filled the room as they discussed this possibility. Even Azar’s eyes sparkled. The sad smile vanished from her lips. She felt a hopeful tugging at the pit of her stomach, and foreboding. She should not believe in these words. She must not fall into their trap.
“She kept her child for a year?”
“They went home together.”
Azar looked at Neda. The tiny creature with the round head and beautiful black-and-blue eyes cuddled so comfortably, so trustingly, against her that it quelled any doubts in her about being right for the baby.
She clasped at the child to keep the tremor out of her voice. “I want to keep her as long as I can.” She could not help it. She could at least hope, couldn’t she? Hope was not forbidden. “Do you think they’ll let me?”
• • •
Another week passed, and still nothing had been communicated to Azar about Neda. No one had called from Sister’s office. Azar felt light, like she could do anything. Maybe they would not take the child away from her after all. Maybe there was no danger in hoping. She began sewing more clothes for Neda. She did embroidery for her, of a girl standing in the middle of a flower field. She began wearing her white shirt again, with its yellow and pink flowers, the colors so bright they glittered in the darkness of the night, and dancing lezgi, stamping on the ground, white and pink flowers bouncing up and down as the others clapped, singing for her. The flowers looked as if they had come to life, along with her flushed cheeks and shiny black eyes and thick wavy hair. Everyone told her how beautiful she was when she danced.
She even began giving haircuts to her cellmates, using the scissors that were given to them for an hour once every few weeks. Azar had wondered about these scissors. Weren’t the Sisters afraid that the prisoners could use them to hurt themselves, kill themselves, even? But, no, the Sisters are not afraid, she thought. Or rather, they did not care. They probably preferred to have some of the prisoners hurt themselves, get rid of themselves for them. That made their job easier: fewer prisoners to worry about. The prisoners might have known this. That was why no one had ever used the scissors for harm. They were never going to do it; they were not going to give the Sisters that satisfaction.
The first to get a haircut from Azar was Marzieh, then another young girl who was soon transferred to another cell. Azar tried to bring back vague, unreliable memories of the way her hairdresser sister had held strands between straight fingers and led them to the blades of the scissors. There were no mirrors in prison. Her cellmates had come to trust her. Then Firoozeh asked for a haircut.
Azar did not wish to cut Firoozeh’s hair. She knew Firoozeh had snitched on her when she was pregnant, told the Sisters that she had been dancing lezgi in the cell. Dancing was not permitted. They should have been praying, not kicking their legs around and jumping to a rhythm that was only in their heads. As punishment, Azar had been taken to the rooftop, where she had to stand under the rain for hours. The rain was supposed to wash the music out of her limbs, out of the limbs of her unborn child. The rain was supposed to make her understand that prison was no place to reenact childhood memories. There, Azar vowed never to have anything to do with Firoozeh again. And yet Firoozeh too had changed since the child’s arrival, and prison was not a place to hold grudges, she thought.
That day, Firoozeh sat on a chair placed in the middle of the wet, dirty bathroom floor, Azar standing behind her with the scissors in her hand, looking at the thick, curvy braid that fell lusciously to the small of Firoozeh’s back. Azar did not even have a comb.
After a long moment of quandary, she laid the open blades to where the braid started, somewhere close to the nape of Firoozeh’s neck, and closed them. Little happened. Instead of the sharp snip she was expecting, all Azar heard was the painfully dull sound of the blades straining to penetrate the thick woven hair. She opened and closed the scissors again, but the hair was too strong. It only crumbled, cringing at the blades’ timid touch. Azar tried again, kept on opening and closing the scissors, digging deeper into the braid. Firoozeh’s hair started flying about in different shapes and lengths. Not one strand of hair matched another. Only then did Azar realize she should have unbraided the hair first. But she could not stop now. She hacked away until half of the braid, broken and rumpled, came away. Then she lifted her gaze. Her wrist ached. Her cellmates looked on intently. Everyone except Firoozeh had realized what was happening. They looked on silently. The naked lightbulb above their heads cast a deathly pallor over their ashen faces.
Azar turned her gaze back to the braid, hanging from Firoozeh’s head. She pulled the tufts of hair out of the scissors and began once again to snip away. She cut with desperate determination, as if trying to resurrect a child she knew was dead. Silence fell as they all watched the disjoined braid drop to the floor. Firoozeh’s tousled, uneven hair struck out from every corner. Azar tried hard to fix it, cutting it here and there, but all she seemed to do was worsen the situation. At last, she stopped. There are no mirrors here, she thought, consoling herself.
“How does it look?” asked Firoozeh, looking around with dilated eyes, her irises tiny pinpoints.
“It’s a modern haircut,” Azar said, trying to lighten the situation. They were inside a prison, after all. What importance could a haircut have?
No one said anything. They looked from Azar to Firoozeh, from Firoozeh to Azar. That was when Marzieh, with Neda asleep in her arms, burst into laughter so loud it crashed against the ceiling and shattered over them like gunpowder. Everyone looked at her, stunned. But Marzieh laughed and laughed, and her laughter, like the flame to a long line of grenades, soon made everyone else break into earsplitting, breathless guffaws. A whirlwind of laughter sweeping them off the ground in wild, unleashed, dizzying effusion.
Firoozeh looked at them, startled. “Why are you laughing?” she asked, touching her hair.
“It’s a bit messy,” Azar said, tittering. Mirror or no mirror, she was probably better off telling the truth. “But it looks fashionable,” she insisted.
“What?” Firoozeh turned abruptly to Azar. She sprang to her feet as if about to charge at her. The sides of her nose flared. Her dilated eyes looked larger than usual. “What did you do? What did you do?” she shouted. She grasped Azar’s shoulders, shaking her.
Azar froze. She felt the heat rushing to her face. The laughter came abruptly to an end. The women looked on with apprehension palpitating in their eyes. Azar opened her mouth to say something, anything, to console Firoozeh, to make her let go.
That was when Parisa almost ran to them, laying a hand on Firoozeh’s shoulder. “Calm down, Firoozi. It’s nothing. Let her go.”
Firoozeh glared at Azar without letting go. Azar could feel her fellow inmate’s hot breath on her face.
“Let her go,” Parisa repeated.
“It’s just a bit uneven,” Azar muttered, trying to take a step back. She kept a grasp on the scissors as if planning to cut her way out of those bathroom walls. “I should’ve unbraided your hair first. I’m sorry.”
With a flushed face, still glaring, Firoozeh let go of Azar. There was something fanatic, unpredictable, in Firoozeh’s eyes. Parisa slowly removed her hand but stood close by.
“I’m sorry,” Azar repeated in a tight voice, the artery in her throat throbbing. She glanced at Parisa apologetically. “I didn’t mean to mess it up.”
“It’s just hair,” Parisa said quietly. “It’ll grow back out.”
Firoozeh touched her hair compulsively, as if she wanted to smooth out the imperfections, without listening to them. She then stood still, no longer looking at Azar. Before walking out of the bathroom, she snatched the scissors out of Azar’s hand.
Silence lengthened. The women in their gray clothes stared at Azar with their gaunt faces and anxious eyes. The sound of a leaking tap filled the air. Parisa glanced at all of them and smiled a sad smile before following Firoozeh out.
• • •
Azar woke with a start. Her thirst lay on her tongue like a chunk of clay. It was early morning. The silvery light of dawn flowed into the cubicle through the yellow chador covering the window, down the naked walls, and splashed over the irregular silhouettes curled up next to each other on the floor. It could barely reach the iron door, which was mercilessly, unwaveringly locked. Azar turned onto her side and placed a hand on Neda’s warm body. Having made sure the child was sleeping and breathing normally, she sat up. She held her breath, listening carefully to the deep rhythmic breathing surrounding her. She squinted at the darkness and the mass of snoring shadows, looking for Firoozeh. What if Firoozeh decided to pay her back? What if she decided to kick Neda, to stomp on her head?
Azar had not slept for nights, not since the haircut, not since she had seen Firoozeh’s angry, vengeful eyes constantly on her. Every night she remained awake until she was sure Firoozeh had fallen asleep. At times, Marzieh helped out, at times, Parisa, staying guard as Azar tried to have a few hours of sleep.
She spotted Firoozeh at the other end of the cell, by the locked iron door, lying on the ground like everyone else. She lay motionless, shriveled, under the blanket. Her body gave an impression of exhaustion; her arms lay lifeless around her, and her head was thrown back on the pillow. She looked like an old woman who needed to gather every gram of strength in order to stand up. It was this exhaustion that frightened Azar, the exhaustion of someone who no longer cared, who could as easily harm one as well as let someone go. Unpredictable was the exhaustion of the soul.
Azar propped the pillow behind her and leaned back. She pulled the blanket up to cover the child. Soon Neda would wake up and want to be fed. The minutes dragged by. Azar waited impatiently for Neda to rouse so she could offer her breasts, full of milk, whose gush was already wetting her shirt. Every time the child fell asleep, Azar almost counted the minutes for her to wake up. There was nothing that made her feel so in control as the moment when she held Neda in her arms and the child’s lips, after a few moments of hungry, anxious searching and adjustments, fastened to her nipple and she began to suckle. That moment alone was what Azar lived for.
She listened again to the sound of breathing thick in the air. She looked back to where Firoozeh was sleeping. She had not moved. Azar lay back and gathered her arms around Neda, tugging the child’s head carefully into the protective crook of her arm.
• • •
The day Azar was called to Sister’s office was a cloudy one. It was right after the afternoon prayer, and the patch of sky that could be seen through Sister’s office window was gray, overcast. The window of Sister’s office did not have curtains. It was a room with a desk, a chair, and a picture of the Supreme Leader with his long white beard on the wall. Behind Sister were cabinets full of paper: documents, files, each with a life of its own.
Firoozeh has finally taken her revenge, Azar thought, half dazed, half demented, sitting there without being able to make the slightest movement. She heard the shrill scream of a crow in the distance. A fly buzzed at the windowsill. Why are they going to take her away from me? she asked herself over and over. I still have milk.
“You didn’t think you could keep your daughter with you here forever, did you?” asked Sister, drumming her fingers on the table, her eyes sparkling.
Something twitched ferociously at the corner of Azar’s left eye. A frost rose from the tiled floor into the soles of her feet and spread through her bones.
“What if she catches a disease here? This is no place to keep a child.”
It was no place to keep the child, but it was a perfect place to keep them. To keep them small. Because one remained small when there was no sky to look at.
Sister paused, as if she wanted her words to sink in, to pierce. Time was endless, expanding around Azar, engulfing her, pulling her down. The chador felt heavy, oppressive, on her head. She felt she could hardly breathe, as if the walls of the room were closing on her. She shook her head slightly, trying to straighten her back.
Someone must have snitched on her, told Sister that Azar wished to keep her child for a long time, as long as possible. Sister could not accept that. If Azar wished to keep her child, it meant that she was happy. It meant Azar was so happy that she could not keep her happiness to herself, that she had to share it with everyone else. That she had to express herself. That was too much happiness in a tiny cell with a barred window.
This was not a place for happiness. This was Evin. A place for fear, brooding, boiling, steaming fear. If Azar wished to keep her child, it meant that she was no longer afraid; it was time to take the child away.
“We’ve already called your parents. The arrangements have been made.” Sister lifted a finger slightly. “You can go now.”
Azar stood up. On the other side of the door, the two Sisters waiting to take Azar back to the cell were speaking. Something about dinner, about buying bread, children’s homework. Azar stretched her hand toward the doorknob. She felt dizzy. Something escaped through her mouth. She did not know if it was a whimper, a cough, drops of saliva. She heard thunder in the distance. She turned the knob.
After that day, they stopped giving her the basin of warm water to wash her child.
• • •
A tiny white butterfly entered the cell through the barred window. Azar watched it flit around for a while. The butterfly was coming from the mountains, which were so close. Azar watched until it settled on the yellow chador in front of the window.
The cell was empty. Everyone was in the courtyard for a few minutes of fresh air. I’ll stay in, Azar had said without looking anyone in the eye. She wanted to use those few stolen moments of calm to feed Neda, which she did with more fervor than ever, as if she wanted to melt into her own milk and into the child’s mouth. So that she could be with her forever, so that no one could separate them.
Four days had passed and still no news of when the child would be taken away. Azar bristled every time she heard the sweeping of the chador, the slip-slaps approaching the door, thinking that they were coming for her, coming for her baby. For a long while after the chador had swept past or the slippers had slapped away, she continued panting.
The anxiety had caused everything around her to slip away like sand. She felt she was beginning to lose her faculties. She could no longer see, no longer hear. Her milk had a strange, immaterial feel. Things had begun to lose their reality. She could no longer hold on to them. The only thing she held on to was every new day. She clung to each one as if it were the last day of her life. As if she were awaiting death with one arm around her child, the other wrapped around herself. She continued to breathe while her life was coming to an end.
Murmurs of conversation flowed into the cell from the barred window. Azar knew what the women were whispering about. Since the day at Sister’s office, all conversations had turned into murmurs. It was like a weight had landed on the women, choking their voices out. They sat in rows along the low walls, their hair hanging lank against their lackluster, angular faces, lines of despondence etched in their foreheads. When? When? they kept asking Azar and one another. Something seemed to have flown out of their bodies, evaporating into the hard, stale air.
Azar stopped listening to the sorrowful susurrus coming from outside. She could not bear it. She gave all her attention to the sound of Neda’s lips moving ferociously back and forth and watched the gentle glow of the day on her face, the dark eyelashes sitting in a neat, thick row across her lids. Anxiety rose in her like a tidal wave, the anxiety of separation, of once again falling deeper and deeper into the bottomless void when Neda was gone.
She had started to have nightmares of Neda crying in the basement of her mother’s house. Alone, wet, hungry. And no one would come to her. Not even her mother. The basement was dark and cold, and Neda would continue to cry until Azar would wake up, her pillow wet with tears. Would her mother truly abandon Neda? Would she be so hurt by Azar’s abandonment of them that she would find it impossible to love the child? How could Azar expect anything of her parents when she herself had let go of them so easily? Would they be able to forgive her for all those knocks on the door left unanswered? Her parents had not even known she was pregnant. That was what she had denied them: the anticipation, the joy, the pride of partaking in her life. What had her parents said when they received the phone call informing them of their granddaughter’s birth? A granddaughter they did not know was growing in the womb of their daughter? Were they happy? Shocked? At least this way they know I am alive, Azar thought, though the thought did not calm her. Her guilt toward her parents gnawed away at her. The questions whirled through her mind, questions for which she had no answer. The nightmares returned night after night, and every morning, she placed her pillow in the corner to dry.
The sound of suckling stopped. Azar turned her gaze to Neda, who had fallen asleep, her lips slowly unfastening from her mother’s breast. Azar watched and her eyes fogged over. Neda’s face became blurry. Azar hid her eyes behind her hand. Something inside her had ripped into pieces, and she knew she would never be able to glue it back together. When she looked up, the butterfly was gone.
• • •
It was raining. Evening had not yet fallen. Somewhere in the courtyard, raindrops drummed incessantly on something hard, like a corrugated roof. Rolled bedding lined the walls of the cell on top of which the women were sitting, some exchanging memories in low voices, some writing letters to their loved ones, some reading for the umpteenth time a letter they’d received from their husband months ago, some staring at the wall in front of them with an absent gaze, humming old songs under their breath, someone’s laughter at a funny memory rolling through the closed space. In a corner, plastic plates and spoons, washed and dried, were piled neatly. The feeble light of the naked bulb fell on the clothes folded and stacked next to each pallet.
The door opened slightly. Someone called Azar’s name. The door was open enough for a child to go through.
Azar gave a start. Her eyes shot toward the door. At the sound of her name, everything seemed to come to a halt. The air in the room went still. No one moved. They all just gaped at Azar.
A few moments passed. Azar sat frozen on the ground. She could not move. She sat there panting, panting, as if her lungs had suddenly stopped pulling in oxygen.
Her name was called a second time.
Next to her, Neda was making tiny noises with her mouth, almost like she was singing. Azar picked her up. The child’s body was soft in her grasp, a bit heavier than before; she had grown. Her feet flitted in the air. Azar thought she could get up but then faltered, as if something were pulling her down to the ground. A pair of hands shot toward her, held her from the shoulders, unfolded her, steadied her. Azar took a step, then another. The women gathered knees to chest as she hobbled past them, her face twisted in spasms of emotions impossible to describe, emotions that had gone beyond anything recognizable.
Trembling hands edged out through the opening. First they were holding a tiny body that carried life. Then the hands were empty. They were pushed away, back into the cell so the door could be closed.
Azar slid down the wall like a raindrop gliding down the window glass. Her head slanted and fell on her shoulder. Her heavy breasts swayed to the side. Her shirt was soaked with milk floating in a tide. Her arms were empty. The iron door next to her was firmly shut.
Silence held sway; silence of mourning. Marzieh and Parisa tried to hoist her up. Their faces flushed as they struggled to throw her lifeless arms around their shoulders. She was heavy like a corpse. Her milk streamed down to her stomach. The milk that was supposed to be her child’s. It now belonged to no one. Orphaned milk. Warm, sticky, disgusting milk.
From the other side of the cell, Firoozeh walked up to Azar, a chador in her hand. She sat down next to her, her face twitching from pain or remorse or grief, Azar did not know. It was twitching like she was being beaten from inside. Azar wanted to get away from her, wanted to attack her, to dig her nails into her. She sat there, undone.
A voice rang out through the cell. A song, quavering, broken. The voice echoing of memories and of being uprooted, torn apart.
There were no more trees inside them.
Gently, Firoozeh lifted Azar’s milk-sodden shirt and wrapped the chador tightly across her breasts to stop the flow.
Posted September 15, 2013
Children of the Jacaranda Tree by Sahar Delihani is a book that focuses on the Iranian Revolution- more specifically the years between 1983 and 2011, and the fall of the Shah, as well as the chaos that followed.
“Azar sat on the corrugated iron floor of a van, huddled against the wall. The undulating street made the car sway from side to side, swinging her this way and that. With her free hand, she clasped on to something that felt like a railing. The other hand lay on her hard, bulging belly, which contracted and strained, making her breathing choppy, irregular. A heat wave of pain spouted from somewhere in her backbone and burst through her body. Azar gasped, seizing the chador wrapped around her, gripping so hard that her knuckles turned white. With every turn, she was thrashed against the walls. With every bump and pothole, her body was sent flying toward the ceiling, the child in her belly rigid, cringing. The blindfold over her eyes was damp with sweat.”
Children of the Jacaranda Tree is less of a plot based book and more a collection of intertwining, related stories. They all share the same general plot and are all part of the overall story, but the way the book is set up makes them seem more individual and personal, though this book is not a collection of short stories- as may have been implied.
Each chapter begins or continues a person or group of people’s stories. So every time a new chapter begins, a new story or a continued story is told. Within each chapter the POV switches constantly too, but it’s done pretty seamlessly (for the most part), so that it never becomes distracting or confusing. Throughout the book we hear the stories of Azar (who is a heavily pregnant woman being held in Evin Prison in Tehran, and is going into labour), Leila and Maman Zinat (a daughter and mother (respectively), looking after their relations’ children while they do their time in prison. Throughout the years, the children include Omid, Sara, Forugh, Dante, and many others who need help. All young children waiting for their parents to return- some of whom have never known their mother or father. The focus of the story varies depending on the chapter, but each character gets their own arc. Another chapter focuses on Amir- in Komiteh Moshtarak Detention Centre, Evin Prison in Tehran. He has been imprisoned for 45 days and is constantly blindfolded. His wife, Maryam, was pregnant when he was arrested. The story also follows from Maryam’s POV- ranging from the year Amir was taken (1983) to her current life in 2009. Another focuses on Donya- whose mother was imprisoned long ago, finally released and then emigrated with her daughter to America- where Donya’s been for the past 15 years. The final chapter (and alternate POV) is Neda’s story (or part of it), and is the story most similar to the author’s own (at least partly). Both were born in Tehran’s Evin Prison in 1983.
However, the author was raised by her mother in California. Her father was imprisoned for at least seven years after she was born. She and her husband now live in Turin, Italy- another important place in this book. In fact, the entire story takes place in either Tehran or Turin.
Azar’s story is perhaps the shortest, but also the first- so one of the most impactful. Her story sets the tone for the rest of the book. When we find her she has been prison for a few months, after she and her husband, Ismael, were arrested for being political activists- protesting against the regime in 1983. Iran has been at war with Iraq for three years, and Saddam was Iraq’s leader at the time.
Her story tells of her experience with labour, childbirth and having a baby in prison. Her child brings new hope to her and the women who share her cell. Azar has no idea what is going on outside her tiny cell, or what happened to her husband, but for now she has a little piece of both of them in her hands.
In her cell there are many other women- including Parisa (who is also pregnant and has a son waiting for her outside the prison)- Omid.
Time skips are frequent in this book, and each chapter can go either forward or backward between any year from 1983 to 2011, though usually in substantial increments. The story spans three generations of people, who are all interconnected in one way or another, sometimes in multiple ways. The chapters alternate between years and characters- with the same time period retold multiple times from different POVs. Between 1988 there is a sudden time skip to 2008, and the next generation of characters, which mostly fills in some gaps left from the previous generation’s characters, and also sets up the generation to follow.
There are a few motifs played through the book. The jacaranda tree is an obvious one, but other motifs include butterflies and pregnancy (obviously symbolic of new life while the old is taken and/or abused). Another strong theme of this book is the power of memories. That decades can pass, but the memories can still feel fresh in the mind- still have the strength to cripple you or lift you.
This book is more a story of relationships, which can make for a slow-paced book as there is little plot. It is more a story about how much a person can impact another’s life. How relationships are born through necessity or by chance, and how they last or change- regardless of whether the person is with you any longer.
In its own words, this quote from the book perfectly describes what the story consists of and is about:
“the mysterious ripples of love and pain, of breaking and blossoming, of past and future.”
There are always two sides to everything. There cannot be love without hate, or a future without a past. There are many different kinds of relationship and this book explores a lot of them. What must it be like, to be a child who is more comfortable with other women than your own mother- for her to be a stranger to you. Childrens’ relationships to one another, and how they change as they age, along with whether they grow up together or not are explored frequently in this book, along with the relationship to the women who raised them compared to those who birthed them.
A LITTLE BACKGROUND
The war and regime are more of a necessary plot point to place the characters in the needed conditions, as well as to immerse the reader in the truth of events. These characters and situations may be fictional, but they most likely happened. There were thousands of people killed or hurt during their protests of the regime- the regime that was meant to free them all from the the fallen Shah. In 1988, 4000-5000 young men and women were executed in the months of July and August. The committee interviewed all political prisoners and ordered executions of those deemed “unrepentant.” Twenty years later, and the next generation is still suffering the country’s rule, but in different ways, and the opposing side are more open- killing on the streets instead of behind the walls of a prison.
During the chaos surrounding the demonstrations and loss of the country’s leader, Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein decided to take advantage of the disruption that followed the wake of the Revolution by invading territories previously taken by Iraq during the Shah’s rule. In 1980, Iraq invaded Iran, starting the Iran-Iraq War, which the Iranian Regime used as an excuse to execute many of it’s own people. By 1982, the Iranian forces had managed to drive out the Iraqi army. In 1987, Iran tried to close the Persian Gulf- thereby stopping oil flow to Iraq, after almost seven years at war with the country. In 1988, Khomeini accepted a truce created by the UN, and the war ended. Iranian casualties were estimated to be between 500,000 and 1,000,000. Following the war, President Rafsanjani con
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Posted June 18, 2013
The book is very good, but one cannot say it was an enjoyable or entertaining read. The story is gripping and poignant and the terror cuts through all the beautiful prose. It was a difficult book to put down.
I'm certainly looking forward to future Delijani novels.
I received this book compliments of Goodreads First Read for my honest review.
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Posted February 14, 2014
Posted December 9, 2013
Stunning excursion into recent history in the Middle East. Beautiful descriptive writing, sometimes gets lost in too many unnecessary details. The storyline can be confusing as it jumps around in time which makes it difficult to keep up with the characters with their unfamiliar names. I enjoyed the book but found myself skipping sections that were irrelevant to the story.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted September 29, 2013
Posted July 22, 2013
A novel based on true life experiences.
I have procrastinated in writing this review because I really wanted to give the book five stars. Unfortunately, I struggled to keep all the characters and their relationships in my head and the time line of the narrative tended to be irratic. In spite of this, the images left in my mind paint a powerful picture of the hardships and sacrifices made by three generations of Iranians from 1983 to the present day. It is a particularly relevant book, given the recent events of the Arab Spring.
The central character is Neda, who represents the life of the author. Both were born in the infamous Evin prison, of mothers who had been imprisoned for their activities during the time of the Iranian Revolution. Within a few months of her birth, Nada is removed from her mother and taken to live with her grandmother.
The novel cleverly illustrates many differing outlooks and positions, from the grandparents who cared for the children of the imprisoned, through those in the prisons, to the children themselves.
No one knew how long they would be detained, if their loved ones were still alive, or whether anyone would ultimately be released. Many prisoners were randomly slaughtered and while some were released, many were never seen again.
This then, raised the quesion as to what to tell their children, whether to admit the awful truth or protect them with fabrications. As these children became adults they had to reconcile their situations and live their lives.
They are now in their late twenties and living through another revolution, dubbed the Arab Spring.
At each stage, many people decided to leave Iran for other, more peaceful, parts of the world and so, a whole new generation of diplaced Iranians has evolved.
This book has a profound message of survival. It reveals the struggle that has been going on in Iran over the last thirty years and which is largely unknown by the majority of The West.
I'd recommend it, but suggest that you take notes while reading, to help keep characters and dates in their correct places.
Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi (4 *)
My Prison, My Home by Haleh Esfandiari (3*)
The Septembers of Shiraz by Dalia Sofer (5*)
Posted July 13, 2013
Children of the Jacaranda Tree by Sahar Delijani begins with the birth of Neda, whose mother is a political prisoner in post-revolutionary Iran in 1983, during the Iran-Iraq War, and follows the lives of three generations of Iranians between 1983 and 2011. All three generations are damaged by the leadership of the Islamist government; the first, who watches as their children are beaten, imprisoned, and executed. The second, who worked hard during a revolution with dreams of a better country, who are cast aside, labeled enemies of the State, enemies of Islam, beaten, imprisoned, and too often executed. And the third, the children, left abandoned and sometimes orphaned, as their parents are arrested or killed.
It is the third generation that are the children of the jacaranda tree. They were the ones who lived for years in the sad but peaceful and loving home of Maman Zinat. She cared for her grandchildren and others during the long, indeterminate prison sentences; offered shelter security in her home, adorned and seemingly protected by the beautiful jacaranda tree in the courtyard.
The book frequently jumps from the early 1980's to the first decade of the 21st Century as it follows the lives of its characters. It isn't exactly fast paced, but what it lacks in thrills is made up for tenfold in Ms. Delijani's beautiful, descriptive prose. There is an expected sadness in the story, sometimes highlighted by characters with minor roles.
But despite the sadness, the war, the desire not to remember, there is also a hope that lies just under the surface, and it is ever present.
The last chapter is set in Turin, Italy. Neda is an adult dating Reza, an Iranian political refugee because of his activity during the protests of the 2009 elections. At one point, his relationship with Neda is strained because of what she sees as his lack of acknowledgement of her parents involvement in reshaping Iran, their suffering and hardships, and by extension, hers. She learns that his father was a member of the Revolutionary Guard, the people responsible for the suffering of her parents and so many others in Iran. Despite Reza's own political exile, his explaining that his father left the Guard because he disagreed with their actions, and that his father was among the demonstrators badly beaten during the 2009 protests, she struggles to accept Reza knowing what his father had likely been involved in, but knowing that to make any progress means letting go of parts of the past.
My only criticism of Children of the Jacaranda Tree is that it is choppy. It jumped around from the 1980's to 2009-2011; from Tehran to Turin. There were many compelling, well developed characters, but it was difficult to keep track of who was who and how were they related to each other. But that might have been intentional; a small, symbolic way to demonstrate the chaos and uncertainty that is a way of life for the people of Iran.
Posted June 26, 2013
I Also Recommend:
On the eve of the 2013 presidential election in Iran, Shahar Delijani invites us to look at what past elections have meant for three generations rooted in post-revolutionary Tehran from 1983 to present day. This is a novel that reads like a memoir, tracing the experiences and thoughts of Iran’s disenfranchised and dissident population. If ever you wondered what it must have been like to be a part of Arab Spring as it played out in massive demonstrations in Tehran, this is one woman’s attempt to share that experience and its roots in Iranian society and its diaspora.
From the opening scenes of a prison birth to the later reminiscences of a woman receiving someone else’s clothes from prison officials after the death of her husband while in custody, this is inflammatory stuff, heart-breaking and heart-hardening stuff. The effect of events like these on families and personalities is charted and surmised, each generation seemingly adding to the ranks of the disaffected. By this count the opposition to the government in Tehran will never go away but instead grows daily. Conversations among the psychologically traumatized characters in this novel echo what was heard in Beijing after the Tiananmen Square demonstrations. This kind of disaffection isn’t going to evaporate without boiling first.
I am not as familiar with customs in the Middle East as I am with those in Asia, so I find the fictional personal interactions recorded here fascinating, supposing that this records faithfully a middling wealthy and cosmopolitan slice of Iranian society. And, though it doesn’t necessarily make good novelistic technique, I enjoyed reading of young male/female relationships. I am struck with the conservatism on one hand and the liberality on the other.
This is Delijani’s debut novel, and while she still has room to grow as a novelist, this book illustrates storytelling. I don’t think the two things are necessarily the same. I never felt involved in this story, but watched from a distance the interactions between characters. Surely there are overlaps in customs, feelings, and intentions, especially among Iranians displaced to the West, and yet I felt a great distance. This could be age (hers or mine or the characters'), or it could be one of the stages of cultural familiarity: Geert Hofstede, Dutch guru on the dimensions of culture, once posited that people go through stages of recognition when encountering another culture. At first, without our own cultural markers, we feel disoriented and distant, as though “we are different from them.” Gradually, as we become more familiar and discover that these are humans, too, we begin to think “we are all the same.” As familiarity grows into deep knowledge, we move back to “we really are different.” I think I am still at Stage 1 with Iran.
Posted June 18, 2013
This is not a pleasurable read but a vitally necessary story. It’s fiction but the reality is so vivid, the tales it tells just have to be true. A constant state of increasing tension is riddled with a surrealistic ambience for Ashar, our first character, who is pregnant in jail and gives birth to her daughter Neda there. But Ashar will not be allowed to keep her daughter after she is done nursing her for three months. Add to that Ashar knows the baby will be taken from her but never knows when and so lives with the agony and fear for far too long, day after day after day!
Omid is a young boy who stares in shock as his parents are arrested and taken away while Omid is eating his breakfast yogurt. Too young to understand the horrific wrong done as a result of this brutal separation, he learns at a very young age to think, speak and act in a very careful way, knowing all too well that one’s happiest moments can be whisked away in a flash.
Sheida learns very quickly that her father was executed under the rule of Sadaam Hussein, but she didn’t find it out from her mother. No, her mother was so traumatized by the father’s arrest, she couldn’t bear to tell her daughter about his death. So the gap between the two grows until the day of truth arrives, and Sheida doesn’t get the horror of it for her mother. What did he do wrong? What was the penalty and why?
No clear revelations fill these pages and pages and pages of torturing questions in and out of jail. A constant juxtaposition of life and death keep the reader on guard with the same nervousness these people have endured for years and years. Many of these characters will escape this beloved but fearsome place, with the heart remaining behind and feeling guilty about not helping others in dire need. Independence and emigration come with such a high cost to these decent human beings forced to endure the worst torture and ill treatment mankind can provide. This is a notable work of historical fiction that should be read by all, indeed perhaps even be part of the educational curricula for high school classes. The reader can well imagine this account in movie form as well. Kudos to you, Sahir Delijani, for sharing this momentous, dignified work of Iranian history in fictional form.
Posted February 15, 2014
No text was provided for this review.
Posted August 28, 2013
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Posted December 17, 2013
No text was provided for this review.