[excerpt from a novel]<\/p>\n
by Layla Sabourian<\/p>\n
Tehran, 1984<\/p>\n
Azadeh was comfortable financially, so she was the one that finally decided to take me to a psychiatrist. This was nearly unheard of in Iran, but it was a last resort for me.<\/p>\n
The \u2018doctor\u2019 was a man about fifty years old, with a salt and pepper beard. His face was severe, and he looked like an aged scholar with his pelt of woollen hairs brimming from his starched white coat. He smelled like antiseptic and chemicals, and it made me nauseous. The study lines in his face sealed his mouth in a frown.<\/p>\n
\u2018Why don\u2019t you want to eat meat?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Because meat comes from living things,\u2019 I said. \u2018I don\u2019t like eating living things. I don\u2019t like to watch things die.\u2019<\/p>\n
He leaned forward in his seat. \u2018But did you know that everything we eat is alive?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It felt like a bucket of icy water had been dumped over my head. No, I didn\u2019t know that. He offered me some sweets he had on his desk – almond-filled pastries.<\/p>\n
\u2018Almonds are alive,\u2019 he said. \u2018We kill them before we eat them when we pluck them from the tree. That\u2019s their life source.\u2019<\/p>\n
The sickeningly sweet odour of honey and almonds wafted into my face as the psychiatrist took a bite of the pastry. I pictured the almonds begging me for their lives, before they had been plucked so heartlessly from the trees. The image made my eyes water.<\/p>\n
\u2018I don\u2019t want to kill anyone,\u2019 I mumbled in a trembling voice.<\/p>\n
He smiled, and it scared me. \u2018Everyone, and everything has to die eventually.\u2019<\/p>\n
I felt dizzy. How many more ways could he shatter my reality?<\/p>\n
\u2018Everyone?\u2019 My chest felt tight. \u2018But don\u2019t you need to be killed to die?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Everyone lives and everyone dies,\u2019 said the psychiatrist. \u2018It’s a natural cycle. If you don\u2019t eat the sheep, it will die of old age.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Will you die too?\u2019 I looked at him in horror.<\/p>\n
\u2018Albateh!\u2019 Certainly! The doctor slapped a hand on his thigh. \u2018I have no doubt I\u2019ll die laughing at my own jokes!\u2019<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I smoothed my skirt. I didn\u2019t think he was funny.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
\u2018What your niece is experiencing is not insanity, it\u2019s grief,\u2019 the psychiatrist told Azadeh. \u2018Like half the country, she has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Iran has been an absolute hotbed of PTSD patients lately. This is what happens when people live through war, or watch someone die before their very eyes. It\u2019s treatable, but not curable. Many people never get over it.\u2019<\/p>\n
Azadeh looked perplexed. \u2018But what does that have to do with the fact that she doesn\u2019t want to eat meat?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Find another protein. Give her beans. I don\u2019t know,\u2019 he said offhandedly. \u2018If you can, move her out of her environment and take her to places where she has no memories left of her parents. There’s a reason she rocks herself like she does. She\u2019s suffering from anxiety. If this is how she\u2019s getting through the day and making sense of the trauma, you should let her do it. We call it \u201cself-soothing\u201d.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018But the rocking\u2026 Her \u201cself-soothing\u201d seems indecent, if you know what I mean,\u2019 Azadeh persisted. \u2018Especially in public? In a classroom?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The psychiatrist took a calculated look out the window.<\/p>\n
\u2018She could definitely benefit from regular therapy,\u2019 he said. \u2018She\u2019d likely respond well to medication.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Are you saying my niece is crazy?\u2019 She stood up from her seat in sudden fury. \u2018That she needs to be medicated at age nine?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Khanum Shekari,\u2019 he said with a devious grin. \u2018Don\u2019t ever lose your wit. It\u2019s so powerful.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u2018Let\u2019s go, Nasi.\u2019 My aunt pulled on my hand and tugged me to my feet. \u2018We\u2019re done here.\u2019<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
My visit with the psychiatrist rattled me to my core, but in ways Ali and Azadeh never could\u2019ve anticipated. The revelation that plants were living things turned my world upside down. Not only did I refuse meat – I refused nuts, seeds, and vegetables too. I was eventually hospitalized for malnutrition, but even as I was receiving my nourishment through an IV, the thought of consuming a living creature for personal gain made me sick. While I clearly couldn\u2019t be trusted on my own, no one wanted to do anything with an insane orphan.<\/p>\n
After much deliberation (and lots of \u201cself-soothing\u201d), my family decided to place me with Azadeh, Ali, and my then six-year-old cousin Payam. They lived among the elite, in Shahrak Gharb: the upper north side of Tehran. They were the best candidates for an additional burden because they were well-off, I guess – at least by our country\u2019s war-stricken standards. At the end of the day, Ali and Azadeh were better equipped to take care of another child than Madar was. (Not to mention that they were my blood relatives. Just in case you forgot.) Besides, Azadeh was pregnant; she could surely use a bonus mentally ill ten-year-old around the house.<\/p>\n
So Ali picked me up in his BMW, though he always said he preferred the Mercedes he kept in the garage. My uncle\u2019s family had come from generations of wealthy landowners in Hamedan, and he loved to flaunt his social status like a Rolex. (He had many of those, too.) His import-export business was growing, and Azadeh reaped the benefits. She was constantly replacing the furniture in their flat in Shahrak Gharb, or refreshing the decor in their grandiose villa in Dam\u0101vand. My aunt distracted herself with the latest trends, even during the revolution and the war, but underneath it all, she was frustrated that she wasn\u2019t able to finish her studies. Homemaking became an outlet for her idle hands. Nobody asked me, but I was happy about the move. In Shahrak Gharb, I didn\u2019t have the same urge to retreat into my imagination all the time. As it turns out, the psychiatrist was right about a change in scenery. I felt more accepted by the neighbourhood kids there. They valued and treated everyone in the same way: as equals. Parents or no parents.<\/p>\n
Ali Aga often insisted that our gardener eat his meals with us, in true Shahrak fashion. Hamid was an Afghan national my uncle hired many years prior. After his parents were forcibly deported from Iran, he arrived in Iran as a young refugee. Because Afghan refugee children weren\u2019t permitted to attend schools in Iran,\u00a0 his uncle taught him to garden. He\u2019d been in Shahrak Gharb ever since, tending to the flora outside the building. Azadeh always saved the best part of her dishes for Hamid and revered him as an honourable guest at her table. Hamid often returned this kindness, inviting us to a home-cooked meal at his home in a poor area of Tehran, which we happily accepted. This sort of behaviour was wildly refreshing compared to the frequent disdain I\u2019d witnessed among the elite in southern Tehran, which had not spared me, even as a ten-year-old child.<\/p>\n
My cousin Payam was a mostly-good little boy, though he had difficulty making friends for reasons I never understood. Fortunately, when I moved into his house, we were already close and we got along exceptionally well. My presence eased some of his family\u2019s concerns about his social life; I provided company and entertainment. Payam never complained about playing with my Barbie dolls, and I looked forward to playing cards with him every evening. Our atypical games were pretty wacky – and often guided by convoluted rules we made up ourselves – but they were nonetheless welcomed by Ali and Azadeh. Anything to keep the little ones busy during wartime.<\/p>\n
Much to my dismay, I realized that moving to Shahrak Gharb meant that I had to transfer schools again. I was entering the fourth grade, at my fourth school. On the first day, in suffocating heat, Azadeh walked me in and introduced me to my teachers, and the principal, Ms Amoozadeh. She was the pinnacle of rigid Islam. An example for all to follow, she dressed in an opaque, black chador and she never wore makeup.<\/p>\n
Ms Amoozadeh stood beside my aunt, and the contrast was jarring for me. Azadeh has always been a fashionable woman, but the revolution pushed her to an extreme – a type of silent revolt she\u2019d adopted as her lone form of protest. She pushed her dark sunglasses over her colourful, patterned hijab. Loose-fitting silky pants and a long cardigan waved in the breeze of the fan.<\/p>\n
When Azadeh told Ms Amoozadeh our last name, her eyes lit up.<\/p>\n
\u2018Zakarian! Any relation to Armand Zakarian?\u2019<\/p>\n
My aunt nodded slowly and their eyes locked; I could see the cogs working in Ms Amoozadeh\u2019s mind, the recognition in Azadeh\u2019s face. The principal pulled my aunt into a reluctant embrace.<\/p>\n
\u2018Azadeh! Heavens above! How are you?\u2019 Ms Amoozadeh flittered around Azadeh. \u2018How is he? Armand? Such an ecstasy…\u2019<\/p>\n
She looked out the window briefly with a smile on her face, clearly caught in some exclusive reverie. She glanced down at me, remembering herself, and searched for the appropriate words.<\/p>\n
\u2018I mean – a good Muslim\u2026 He\u2019s such an intelligent man. My family has missed him. And you, of course, Azadeh, so\u2026 so much.\u2019<\/p>\n
I almost laughed. My father was a character, and he could\u2019ve been described in many ways, but a \u201cgood Muslim\u201d was not what anyone else would have come up with, EVER! Azadeh\u2019s eyes filled up anyway, much to my surprise, and I watched her fall into a daydream – her carefree past: when she, Roxana, and my father once shared adventures together at the University of Tehran. Many of their classmates had been arrested, labelled as communists or Mujahideens, jihadist guerillas. A few others, like Ms Amoozadeh, had hastily converted into strict \u201cMuslims\u201d and framed themselves as strong supporters of the regime. Academia in Iran was no longer a place Azadeh felt she truly belonged to.<\/p>\n
\u2018We just received news of Armand\u2019s death,\u2019 my aunt mumbled.<\/p>\n
Ms Amoozadeh\u2019s smile dropped from her face, and tears bubbled up in her eyes. Azadeh comforted her and they reminisced for a moment, laughing and patting each other\u2019s hands. They shared stories and inside jokes from a time before me.<\/p>\n
Azadeh pushed me forward.<\/p>\n
\u2018This is Armand\u2019s daughter. She\u2019s been going through a rough time.\u2019 She leaned in and lowered her voice. \u2018Their marriage didn\u2019t last, you know. She left them, and it nearly ruined my niece. She has some strange habits that I hope your disciplined school will help fix,\u2019 she said, as if I wasn\u2019t present.<\/p>\n
I had always forgiven Azadeh\u2019s bluntness, knowing that she had a good heart, but I wished so much that she hadn\u2019t talked about me like that to the principal. Ms Amoozadeh guided me off to class and I felt a knot in my stomach.<\/p>\n
\u2018So, tell me about your mother,\u2019 Ms Amoozadeh prompted, walking me down the hallway.<\/p>\n
\u2018She was…\u2019<\/p>\n
I paused, trying to think of anything at all to say.<\/p>\n
\u2018She was… very sweet,\u2019 I mustered.<\/p>\n
It wasn\u2019t completely true – it was hardly a little bit true – and I\u2019m not sure why I said it. Politeness, maybe. Ms Amoozadeh chuffed like a horse. She pulled me roughly by my arm, and shoved me into the classroom. The warmth she\u2019d shown Azadeh, apparently, didn\u2019t transfer to me.<\/p>\n
\u2018This is Layla Zakarian. Tread lightly around this one,\u2019 the principal warned. She stood in the doorway. \u2018Her father is dead, and her mother is… Well\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n
She almost snickered. I saw it.<\/p>\n
\u2018She\u2019s so very, very sick.\u2019<\/p>\n
Pretending to be amused, even though they surely had no idea what Ms Amoozadeh was talking about, the children stared at me. My face flushed. Why had she said such a thing? I took an empty seat near the front of the room, but the acoustics carried the whispers of the other kids back to my ears. They chittered away like chipmunks, scanning me with their big, round eyes. They knew I was damaged goods.<\/p>\n
One of the sweeter girls, Beeta, sat with me during recess.<\/p>\n
\u2018I know there\u2019s more to you than a dead father\u2019s daughter,\u2019 she said.<\/p>\n
She held my hands, looked at me, and smiled. At the end of the first day, we walked home together. I discovered she, too, resided in Hafez – the enormous luxury condo building we lived in, named after the famous poet. She was on the tenth floor. I lived on the seventh. We promised to play with each other that evening and do our homework together.<\/p>\n
Living in a high rise apartment without any backyard space or a roof to hang out on was a bit of an adjustment, but I soon realised with delight that the entire green space downstairs and the playground structure out back was my new garden. Beeta and I met there after school to bat little white balls at each other over the ping pong table, which facilitated a tribe of new friends that I genuinely enjoyed being around. When the parking lot wasn\u2019t being used as a bomb shelter, it was a space for the neighbourhood children to gather and play or exchange books that were outlawed, banned. We let the adults worry about the war and making the world anew, opting to preserve some of the hottest embers from the previous one. The truth of our existence could be whatever we wanted it to be. I didn\u2019t need to rock anymore; I found solace elsewhere.<\/p>\n
Yet, as great as things were with my new living situation, and no matter how comforting Beeta was, she was helpless to protect me from Ms Amoozadeh. Like Ezzat and Effat, she took her malice out on me. I was never in good enough shape for her standards. There was always something about me she could target – either my nails were too long, or my socks were too bright, or a single hair had fallen out of place when I\u2019d been jostled in the hallway. My father\u2019s death had fallen on my shoulders for Ms Amoozadeh, and worst of all, Maryam had stolen him away from her. Picking at me for silly things was some depraved retribution for my mother\u2019s misgivings.<\/p>\n
At the time, the new regime did not allow girls to wear bright colours. We could wear either brown or black, so as not to tempt any men with our presence. After one of his trips to Japan, Ali gifted me a pair of dark green velcro shoes. I was the first to receive such a treasure in our neighbourhood. In times of war, toys and foreign clothes were difficult to get for the majority of people, but my uncle owned an import-export company, and he had the privilege of bringing a lot of foreign-made goods to the residents of Shahrak Gharb. He was very generous with me, I thought. The shoes he recovered from Japan were one of the first new gifts I\u2019d ever received; my typical garb was made up of hand-me-downs.<\/p>\n
The next day at school, I was so proud to wear those shoes. When our morning routine began – we walked over the American and the Iraqi flag every day before classes started – I stomped beside my peers with my head held high. I was finally able to prove my worth, raising above my orphan status, for once not labelled as poor and pathetic.<\/p>\n
\u2018Zakarian!\u2019 Ms Amoozadeh shouted across the ballroom.<\/p>\n
She loved saying my last name. I\u2019m sure she\u2019d said it many times long ago in another life. She gestured for me to follow her, guiding me to her office. I\u2019d never been singled out for bad behaviour like this after I lost Elnaz, my safety blanket. My heart pounded in my ears. Perched on the edge of a cold desk chair, I sat in Ms Amoozadeh\u2019s office, nervously wringing my hands.<\/p>\n
\u2018Did you think you could get away with those?\u2019<\/p>\n
She looked at my feet in disgust. My eyebrows furrowed. I was sure my new shoes were dark enough to comply with our school rules. They were a deep forest green – so dark they were almost black – and I\u2019d hoped no one would notice the difference.<\/p>\n
\u2018Why can\u2019t you just follow the rules? You\u2019re as rebellious as your father.\u2019<\/p>\n
She attributed that, and many other demerits, to me and my father, then she sent me home to change. When I got home, though, I was too afraid to tell my uncle what happened that day. Unfortunately, he spotted me changing my shoes.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u2018You\u2019re home early,\u2019 he ventured. \u2018Is everything okay?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I sat on the floor looking like I\u2019d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u2018I\u2019m talking to you, Nasi. Why aren\u2019t you wearing your new shoes?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I burst into tears, wailing about Ms Amoozadeh\u2019s harsh scolding, hiccupping between the words. Ali Aga and Azadeh exchanged looks.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u2018Amoozadeh?\u2019 My uncle looked into Azadeh\u2019s eyes. \u2018The same Amoozadeh that\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n
She shot him a piercing look. \u2018Yes. The same.\u2019<\/p>\n
Despite his obvious shock, he turned to me with tenderness in his face.<\/p>\n
\u2018It\u2019s okay!\u2019 Ah, Ali Aga. Always an optimist. \u2018Azadeh will buy you a new pair, and you can save your other shoes for\u2026 for a special occasion, but now, please leave the kitchen!\u2019<\/p>\n
I obeyed, albeit very confused, but I listened behind the door, hoping to learn more about Ms Amoozadeh.<\/p>\n
\u2018I remember Amoozadeh. The one the boys would call indecent names?\u2019<\/p>\n
Azadeh grunted in confirmation.<\/p>\n
\u2018With the shortest skirts! Drinking more than any man I knew, riding on the back of Armand\u2019s motorcycle! She\u2019s a conservative Muslim now?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018She says that she came to her senses during the revolution, accepted God, and has since turned from her old ways.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Typical. She loved to play judge and jury. It\u2019s no wonder she\u2019s joined the extremists.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018You should see how she tortures these poor girls at school. She doesn\u2019t just pick on Nasi; I\u2019ve seen her scolding other girls for having waxed off their moustaches, or for tweezing the hair between their eyebrows. She\u2019s terrifying.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Under this regime, \u201cvirtue\u201d can look like so many things. Illogical worship has become the norm. She was always a hypocrite. And now she\u2019s using her hypocrisy as a resource, like a chameleon.\u2019 My uncle sighed. \u2018She changes her face when it suits her.\u2019<\/p>\n
Ali Aga stepped up as a central paternal figure in my life when I moved to Shahrak Gharb. Guilt clung to the back of my throat like a sticky lozenge when I thought about how he must\u2019ve felt when he saw me slipping off the shoes he\u2019d taken such care in bringing back to me from Japan. Unlike Ali Aga – who embraced modernity for the most part, like my father had – his family was old-fashioned, and dissatisfied with my aunt as a daughter-in-law. Azadeh wasn\u2019t religious enough nor conservative enough for them. She showed her hair at family gatherings and she didn\u2019t pray five times a day because she considered herself an enlightened Muslim and followed S\u00fafi rituals like Madar, rather than the traditional Shia Islam. My aunt and my uncle were truly taken with each other though, and they weren\u2019t shy about displaying their affection in ways that strict Muslims found offensive. Now, on top of all this, their dear grandchild would be influenced by me – a girl without a father, tainted by my mother\u2019s dirty name.<\/p>\n
I heard Ali\u2019s father behind semi-closed doors once.<\/p>\n
\u2018Her father\u2019s death doesn\u2019t justify her presence here. She still has a mother, and relatives with enough money. Why don\u2019t they take care of her? Why should she be here, eating my son\u2019s bread?\u2019<\/p>\n
Ali Aga tried to pour water over the flames, but his father was a grease fire.<\/p>\n
\u2018Father! Don\u2019t worry about it. Thank God I make enough money to support all of us. What do you want me to do, throw her out on the street, hand her off to some orphanage?\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Yes, precisely.\u2019 He said it with his whole chest. \u2018Why don\u2019t you do that? It\u2019s not your responsibility to pay for the unrealistic aspirations of others.\u2019<\/p>\n
Ali adopted a tone that almost supported his father, but his words were duplicitous. I smiled a bit to myself when he defended me.<\/p>\n
\u2018Is that what they teach you in the Quran?\u2019 he asked. \u2018Is that what being a good Muslim is to you? Are you becoming a hypocrite? You sound everyone else committing all kinds of crimes in the name of Islam.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u2018Look, pesaram,\u2019 my son. \u2018Listen to me. I\u2019m your father, and I know what\u2019s best for you. Children are not the product of chance. They carry the seeds of their parents inside, and that one – that girl – she carries seeds of a plant that bears no fruit. There\u2019s no hope for her.\u2019<\/p>\n
I was ashamed of myself, of the problems I had caused for Ali and his family. I hated myself more and more everyday, overhearing conversations like that. Ali took no heed of his father\u2019s words, luckily for me; he allowed me to stay with them – like it was never a question – but his father remained spiteful.<\/p>\n
Ali reminded me of Baba in the right light. They shared similar dark features, and even his cologne mixed seamlessly with the smell of the Marlboros he, too, loved so much. My bond with him was often stronger than my relationship with Azadeh. Similar to the rest of my paternal aunts and uncles, her obsessive-compulsive behaviour was only fueled by her anxiety. I was often subject to her lukewarm aggressions.<\/p>\n
\u2018You only received a 19? What happened to the other point?\u2019 She dusted off a table. \u2018What are you going to do with yourself, Nasi? You\u2019re not pretty enough to land a husband with no parents, so you\u2019d better study. That\u2019s your only chance in life.\u2019<\/p>\n
In a 20-point system, a 19 indicates a 95% success, but Azadeh was repulsed by anything short of perfection. Her need to control every facet of her life had resulted in her own complicated relationship with Madar, which festered like an infected wound. The continuous series of failed pregnancies and accompanying miscarriages she was suffering through robbed her of her mental health. Coupled with the looming war and the constant threat of a bombing, Azadeh was completely consumed by her worry and we never talked about it. I never even overheard any hushed conversations between my aunt and my uncle. Culture didn\u2019t permit it. So Azadeh channeled her anxiety into \u201cdisciplining\u201d me. She punished me frequently and held me at an arm\u2019s length, making my otherness from Payam strikingly clear. She assigned me many cleaning chores, which felt like traps designed to illustrate how I could never live up to her standards – or anybody\u2019s, for that matter. We didn\u2019t realize at the time that she suffered from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but it was in everything she did.<\/p>\n
To the outside world, I was living a life others dreamed of. I lived in one of the nicest apartment units in Tehran with three bedrooms and a wonderful view. We drove around in the latest car model, flashy and fast around tight corners. I wore the latest styles, all kinds of expensive clothes that my uncle brought home from work. But my identity as an outsider was concrete. I could never express what I wanted, and nobody would\u2019ve listened if I tried. Payam had freedom and an allowance, while I was constantly reminded that I was different from them because of my cursed Vatani blood. I wished so desperately for Azadeh to ignore my DNA and love me as her own daughter, the way I loved her as my mother. But every night, about one hour before our bedtime, they would call Payam away to their bedroom, and the door would close with a click. I knew it would be inappropriate for me to venture inside, but I could hear them giggling, laughing, playing. Sometimes they\u2019d read him stories, and I almost felt lucky just to listen.<\/p>\n
Then Payam was escorted back to our shared room to be tucked in. We slept in bunk beds – he was on top; I was on the bottom. I refused to ever sleep on the top of a bunk bed again, and even the sight of our sleeping arrangement made me sick to my stomach, but I never complained. I was grateful to have a roof over my head where nobody made me bleed. I hid beneath the sheets when Ali and Azadeh came into the room to tuck Payam in – when Azadeh would lean over and kiss him, and Ali told him how much they loved him. I pretended to be asleep.<\/p>\n
Insomnia plagued my nights. What would I become? A girl with cursed heritage that no one seemed to want? I was lucky to have Azadeh and Ali, who always seemed to be giving Zakat, an \u2018obligatory charity\u2019 – the Fourth Pillar of Islam. I know now that they never would\u2019ve loved me how I wanted. They were never going to be the parents I dreamed of, but they always made sure I had anything a child could need, from books to clothes to imported green shoes from Japan. But I wouldn\u2019t be a helpless child forever, I knew. Once I grew up, what would be my place in society? Would I belong anywhere?<\/p>\n
Iranian culture tends to err on the side of elitism. We focus on material wealth, possessions, image, and status. We have a deeply rich culture with luxurious artefacts, and we\u2019re a proud nation; this pride comes with proof, whether by way of Persian rugs, pottery, fashion, or architecture. Iran has been serving the elites of the upper class for more than 4,000 years. Since its inception, those elite rulers have constantly played the game of power and authority, making laws to criminalise starving and abused workers, passing down their toxic legacy through generations. The Iranian Revolution was a call for change, yet the crowns remained on the heads of elites, in spite of it all.<\/p>\n
I had always been proud to be Iranian, but my own proof of such is reliant on the recipes I share with my friends, or the way in which I carry myself through the world. I had not shared Azadeh\u2019s need for materialistic things. I appreciated the home I was given and the means I was provided with to succeed in a world so determined to beat me down, but the one thing I truly longed for was the love of a mother and father. Ali couldn\u2019t import that for me.<\/p>\n
Comments made by my neighbours (and some of my friends) still haunt me.<\/p>\n
\u2018What can you expect from her, someone whose own mother left her? She\u2019ll never amount to anything.\u2019<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u2018Ali and Azadeh, what saints! It\u2019s not their duty to take care of Azadeh\u2019s niece. It\u2019s such a lucky stretch for her to be taken in by them like that. What a burden she must be. Look at the nice clothes they bought for her! And she has more Barbies than all the other kids in Shahrak Gharb combined! Wow, how they spoiled that Bi Pedar Madar girl.\u2019<\/p>\n
I wished I had the courage to scream at them that I didn\u2019t want any Barbies. I just wanted love and affection; I wanted to have my own family, a family who did not despise my blood. A sense of belonging – that was all I wanted. Did I not deserve it? Was I to pay for my family’s mistakes for all my life?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
[excerpt from a novel] by Layla Sabourian Tehran, 1984 Azadeh was comfortable financially, so she was the one that finally decided to take me to a psychiatrist. This was nearly unheard of in Iran, but it was a last resort for me. The \u2018doctor\u2019 was a man about fifty years old, with a salt and […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1548,77],"tags":[1549,1123,1558],"class_list":["post-14102","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-egophobia-71","category-english","tag-egophobia-71","tag-english","tag-layla-sabourian"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6DakB-3Fs","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14102","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=14102"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14102\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":14104,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14102\/revisions\/14104"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=14102"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=14102"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=14102"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}