Not Without My Daughter
by
Betty Mahmoody
PUBLISHER: unknown
ISBN: 0312911939
My daughter dozed in her seat next to the window of a British Airways
jetliner, her red-brown curls encircling her face, tumbling haphazardly
below her shoulders. They had never been cut.
It was August 3, 1984.
My darling child was exhausted from our extended journey. We had left
Detroit on Wednesday morning, and as we neared the end of this final
leg of the trip, the sun was already rising on Friday.
My husband, Moody, glanced up from the pages of the book that rested
upon his paunch. He pushed his glasses up to his balding forehead.
"You better get ready," he said,
I unbuckled my seat belt, grabbed my purse, and made my way down the
narrow aisle toward the lavatory in the rear of the airplane. Already
the cabin attendants were gathering trash, and otherwise preparing for
the first stages of our descent.
"This is a mistake," I said to myself. "If only I could get off this
plane right now." I locked myself in the rest room and glanced into
the mirror to see a woman on the ragged edge of panic. I had just
turned thirty-nine, and at that age a woman should have a handle on
life. How, I wondered, had I lost control?
I freshened my makeup, trying to look my best, trying to keep my mind
busy. I did not want to be here, but I was, so now I had to make the
best of it. Perhaps these two weeks would pass quickly. Back home in
Detroit, Mahtob would start kindergarten classes at a Montessori school
in the suburbs. Moody would immerse himself in his work. We would
begin work on our dream house. Just get through these two weeks, I
told myself.
I hunted through my purse for the pair of heavy black panty hose Moody
had instructed me to buy. I pulled them on and smoothed the skirt of
my conservative dark green suit over them.
Once more I glanced at my reflection, dismissing the thought of running
a brush through my brown hair. Why bother? I asked myself. I donned
the heavy green scarf Moody said I must wear whenever we were outdoors.
Knotted under my chin, it made me look like an old peasant woman.
I pondered my eyeglasses. I thought I was more attractive without
them. It was a question of how much I wanted to impress Moody's
family, or how much I wanted to be able to see of this troubled land. I
left the glasses on, realizing that the scarf had already done
irreparable damage.
Finally I returned to my seat.
"I've been thinking," Moody said. "We have to hide our American
passports. If they find them, they will take them away from us."
"What should we do?" I asked.
Moody hesitated. "They will search your purse, because you are
American," he said. "Let me carry them. They are less likely to
search me."
This was probably true, for my husband was of illustrious lineage in
his homeland, a fact implicit even in his name. Persian names are
laced with layers of meaning, and any Iranian could deduce much from
Moody's full name, Sayyed Bozorg Mabmoody. "Sayyed" is a religious
title denoting a direct descendant of the prophet Mohammed on both
sides of the family, and Moody possessed a complex family tree, written
in Farsi, to prove it. His parents bestowed the appellation "Bozorg"
on him, hoping that he would grow to deserve this term applied to one
who is great, worthy, and honorable. The family surname was originally
Hakim, but Moody was born about the time the shah issued an edict
prohibiting Islamic names such as this, so Moody's father changed the
family name to Mahmoody, which is more Persian than Islamic. It is a
derivative of Mabmood, meaning "praised".
Added to the status of his name was the prestige of schooling. Although
Moody's countrymen officially hate Americans, they venerate the
American educational system. As a physician educated and trained in
America, Moody would surely be numbered among the privileged elite of
his native land.
I delved into my purse, found the passports, and handed them to Moody.
He slipped them into the inside pocket of his suit.
Soon the airplane entered the traffic pattern. The engines slowed
perceptibly and the nose of the airplane dipped unusually low,
producing a steep, quick descent. "We have to come down fast because
of the mountains that surround the city," Moody said. The entire craft
shuddered under the strain. Mahtob wakened, suddenly alarmed, and
clutched my hand. She gazed up at me for reassurance.
"It's okay," I told her, "we'll be landing soon."
What was an American woman doing flying into a country that had the
most openly hostile attitude toward Americans of any nation in the
world? Why was I bringing my daughter to a land that was embroiled in
a bitter war with Iraq?
Try as I might, I could not bury the dark fear that had haunted me ever
since Moody's nephew Mammal Ghodsi had proposed this trip. A two-week
vacation anywhere would be endurable if you could look forward to
returning to comfortable normalcy. But I was obsessed with a notion
that my friends assured me was irrational-that once Moody brought
Mahtob and me to Iran, he would try to keep us there forever.
He would never do that, my friends had assured me. Moody was
thoroughly Americanized. He had lived in the United States for two
decades. All of his possessions, his medical practice the sum total of
his present and future -were in America. Why would he consider
resuming his past life?
The arguments were convincing on a rational level, but no one knew
Moody's paradoxical personality as well as I. Moody was a loving
husband and father, yet given to callous disregard for the needs and
desires of his own family. His mind was a blend of brilliance and dark
confusion. Culturally he was a mixture of East and West; even he did
not know which was the dominant influence in his life.
Moody had every reason to take us back to America after the two-week
vacation. And he had every reason to force us to stay in Iran.
Given that chilling possibility, why, then, had I agreed to come?
Mahtob.
For the first four years of her life she was a happy, chatty child with
a zest for life and a warm relationship with me, with her father, and
with her bunny, a cheap, flattened, stuffed animal about four feet
tall, emblazoned with white polka dots on a green background. It had
straps on its feet so that she could attach the bunny to her own feet
and dance with it.
In Farsi, the official language of the Islamic Republic of Iran, the
word means "moonlight."
But to me Mahtob is sunshine.
As the wheels of the jetliner touched down upon the runway, I glanced
first at Mahtob and then at Moody, and I knew the reason why I had come
to Iran.
We stepped off the airplane into the overwhelming, oppressive summer
heat of Tehran heat that seemed to physically press down upon us as we
walked across a stretch of tarmac from the plane to a bus waiting to
transport us to the terminal. And it was only seven o'clock in the
morning.
Mahtob clung to my hand firmly, her big brown eyes taking in this alien
world.
"Mommy," she whispered, "I have to go to the bathroom.
"Okay. We'll find one." As we entered the airport terminal, stepping
into a large reception room, we were struck quickly by another
disagreeable sensation the overpowering stench of body odor,
exacerbated by the heat. I hoped that we could get out of there soon,
but the room was jammed with passengers arriving from several flights,
and everyone pushed and shoved toward a single passport control desk,
the only exit from the room.
We were forced to assert ourselves, elbowing our way forward like the
others. I cradled Mahtob in front of me, protecting her from the mob.
Chattering high-pitched voices screamed all around us. Mahtob and I
were drenched in perspiration.
I knew that women in Iran were required to keep their arms, legs, and
foreheads covered, but I was surprised to see that all of the women
airport employees as well as most of the female passengers were wrapped
almost completely in what Moody told me were chadors. A chad or is a
large, half-moon-shaped cloth entwined around the shoulders, forehead,
and chin to reveal only eyes, nose, and mouth. The effect is
reminiscent of a nun's habit in times past. The more devout Iranian
women allowed only a single eye to poke through. Women scurried
through the airport carrying several pieces of heavy luggage in only
one hand, for the other was needed to hold the fabric in place under
the chin. The long, flowing black panels of their chadors billowed
wide. What intrigued me most was that the chad or was optional. There
were other garments available to fulfill the harsh requirements of the
dress code, but these Moslem women chose to wear the chad or on top of
everything else, despite the oppressive heat. I marveled at the power
their society and their religion held over them.
It took us a half hour to make our way through the crowd to the
passport desk, where a scowling official looked at the single Iranian
passport that legitimized all three of us, stamped it, and waved us
through. Mahtob and I then followed Moody up a flight of stairs,
around a corner, and into the luggage claim area, another large room
crammed full of passengers.
"Mommy, I have to go to the bathroom," Mahtob repeated as she wiggled
uncomfortably from side to side.
In Farsi, Moody asked a chad or-clad woman for directions. She pointed
toward the far end of the room, then hurried off on her business.
Leaving Moody to await our luggage, Mahtob and I located the rest room,
but as we approached the entrance we hesitated, repelled by the stench.
Reluctantly we entered. We peered around the darkened room, looking
for a toilet, but all we found was a hole in the cement floor,
surrounded by a flat, oval-shaped slab of porcelain. The floor was
littered with fly-infested piles where people had either missed or
ignored the hole. "It smells too bad!" Mahtob cried, pulling me away.
We ran quickly back to Moody.
Mahtob's discomfort was obvious, but she had no desire to search for
another public toilet. She would wait until we reached the home of her
aunt, Moody's sister, a woman of whom he spoke in reverential terms.
Sara Mahmoody Ghodsi was the matriarch of the family, whom everyone
addressed with a title of deep respect, Ameh Bozorg, "Great-aunt."
Things will be better once we reach Ameh Bozorg's home, I thought.
Mahtob was exhausted, but there was nowhere to sit, so we unfolded the
baby stroller we had brought as a gift for one of Moody's newborn
relatives. Mahtob sat in it with relief.
As we waited for our luggage, which showed no signs of making an
appearance, we heard a shrill cry coming in our direction.
"Da-bee-jon!" the voice shrieked. "Da-hee& jon!!"
Hearing the words "dear uncle" in Farsi, Moody turned and called out a
joyous greeting to a man racing in our direction. The two men fell
into an extended embrace, and when I saw tears flowing from Moody's
eyes, I felt a sudden pang of guilt over my reluctance to make the
trip. This was his family. His roots. Of course he wanted, needed,
to see them. He would enjoy them for two weeks, and then we would
return home.
"This is Zia," Moody said to me.
Zia Hakim pumped my hand warmly.
He was one of an innumerable multitude of young male relatives whom
Moody lumped under the convenient term "nephew." Zia's sister Malouk
was married to Mostafa, third son of Moody's venerable elder sister.
Zia's mother was Moody's mother's sister and his father was Moody's
father's brother, or vice versa; the connection never was totally clear
to me. "Nephew" was the easiest term to use.
Zia was excited to meet Moody's American wife for the very first time.
In polished English he welcomed me to Iran. "I am so happy you came,"
he said. "How long we have been waiting for this!" Then he swept
Mahtob off her feet and plied her with hugs and kisses.
He was a handsome man with striking Arabic features and a winning
smile. Taller than most of the small-statu red Iranian men around us,
his charm and sophistication were apparent immediately. This is what I
had hoped Moody's family would be like. Zia's reddish-brown hair was
styled fashionably. He wore a neat, tailored suit and a laundered
shirt, open at the neck. Best of all, he was clean.
"There are so many people outside waiting to see you," he said,
beaming. "They have been here for hours."
"How did you get in past customs?" Moody asked.
"I have a friend who works here."
Moody brightened. Surreptitiously he pulled our American passports
from his pocket. "What should we do with these?" he asked. "We do
not want them confiscated."
"I will take care of them for you," Zia said. "Do you have any
money?"
"Yes." Moody peeled off several bills and handed them to Zia, along
with our American passports. "I will see you outside," Zia said,
disappearing into the crowd.
I was impressed. Zia's appearance and air of influence confirmed what
Moody had told me about his family. Most were well educated; many had
university degrees. They were medical professionals, like Moody, or
they were involved in the business world. I had met several of his
"nephews" who had visited us in the United States, and they all seemed
to have some degree of social status among their countrymen.
But not even Zia, it seemed, could speed up the pace of the luggage
workers. Everyone moved frenetically and chattered constantly, but
seemed to accomplish little. As a result we stood in the heat for more
than three hours, first waiting for our luggage and then in an
interminable queue in front of the customs inspectors. Mahtob remained
silent and patient although I knew she must have been in agony.
Finally we pushed and shoved our way to the head of the line, Moody in
front, me, Mahtob, and the stroller following.
The inspector searched carefully through each piece of our luggage,
stopping when he found an entire suitcase packed with prescription
medicines. He and Moody carried on an animated discussion in Farsi.
Moody explained to me in English that he told the customs officer he
was a doctor and had brought the drugs to donate to the local medical
community.
His suspicion aroused, the inspector asked more questtions. Moody had
brought numerous gifts for his relatives. These had to be unwrapped
and checked. The inspector opened our clothing bag and found Mahtob's
bunny, a last-second addition to our luggage. It was a well-traveled
bunny, having accompanied us to Texas, Mexico, and Canada. And just as
we were leaving home in Detroit, Mahtob had decided that she could not
travel to Iran without her best friend.
The inspector allowed us to keep the clothing bag and to Mahtob's
relief-the bunny. The remainder of the luggage, he said, would be sent
to us later, after it was checked thoroughly.
Thus unburdened, some four hours after our plane had landed, we stepped
outside.
Immediately Moody was engulfed in a mob of robed veiled humanity that
clawed at his business suit and wailed' in ecstasy. More than one
hundred of his relatives crowded around, screaming, crying, pumping his
hand, embracing him and kissing him, kissing me, kissing Mahtob.
Everyone seemed to have flowers to thrust at Mahtob and me. Our arms
were soon full.
Why am I wearing this stupid scarf? I wondered. My hair was matted to
my scalp. Perspiring profusely, I thought: I must smell like the rest
of them by now.
Moody wept tears of joy as Ameh Bozorg clung to him. She was cloaked
in the omnipresent heavy black chad or but I recognized her from
photographs anyway. Her hooked nose was unmistakable. A large-boned,
broad-shouldered woman, quite a bit older than Moody's forty-seven
years, she held him in a tenacious embrace, throwing her arms over his
shoulders, kicking her feet off the ground, and wrapping her legs
around him as though she would never let him go.
In America Moody was an osteopathic anesthesiologist, a respected
professional with an annual income approaching one hundred thousand
dollars. Here, he was merely Ameh Bozorg's little boy once again.
Moody's parents, both of them physicians, had died when he was only
six, and his sister had raised him as her own son. His return after an
absence of nearly a decade so overwhelmed her that other relatives
finally had to pull her away from him.
Moody introduced us and she poured out her affection on me, hugging me
tightly, smothering me with kisses, chattering all the while in Farsi.
Her nose was so huge I could not believe it was real. It loomed
beneath greenish-brown eyes glazed with tears. Her mouth was filled
with crooked, stained teeth.
Moody also introduced her husband, Baba Hajji. The name, he said,
means "father who has been to Mecca." A short, dour man dressed in a
baggy gray suit stretching over the soles of his canvas shoes, he said
nothing. He stared at the ground in front of me, so that his eyes, set
...
FatiS