A Time To Betray Part 2

"That will change, Davood jon. jon. He's been making changes all along. We have a good life. We're very prosperous because of his programs." He's been making changes all along. We have a good life. We're very prosperous because of his programs."

"What are you saying? We have more political prisoners in our jails than ever before. All our progress is meaningless if our basic rights are being denied."

My grandmother always found this talk annoying. She'd shake her head and say, "Bah, they started this again! There are kids here. They might tell someone at school that we talk bad about Shahanshah at home." She would turn to my dad and scoff. "I think Davood is looking for trouble."

This would lead to my father putting his arm around Grandma and saying, "Don't worry, Mother. They are talking about history and democracy. It is good for the kids. They learn to be open-minded."

My mother wouldn't agree. "Your mother is right. Some kids can interpret talk like this as disrespect to the shah."

Grandma would jump on this to reinforce her point. "They should teach these kids piety instead. That's how they learn to be good. It's through G.o.d and religion that we can teach these restless kids to be honest and trustworthy."

My parents were not religious people nor political. They did believe in G.o.d, but they thought religion kept people from discovering science and the purpose of being. "Religion mandates what to do and how to do it," my mother once said to me. "It stops your way of thinking and exploring your options in life." My mother always thought progressively. While most Iranian women chose to be housewives, she spent most of her time in a children's hospital as a nurse.

While my mother and father had similar perspectives on the world, my grandparents thought very differently from each other. Grandpa thought that man was all about his background and roots. He would say, "We are a nation of royalty with a rich history of kingdom." He spoke proudly of the rule of shahs over the centuries and about our rich culture of arts and crafts. His love affair with the Pahlavi dynasty started when Reza Shah-E-Kabir, known as Reza Shah the Great, took the reins of the country in a military coup in 1921 and confronted the Soviets, hoping to control Iran by helping rebellious militias in the north of the country. Reza Shah dethroned Ahmad Shah, the last king of the Qajar dynasty. He then chose the name Pahlavi for himself, becoming the first king of this new dynasty. My grandfather believed in Reza Shah's edicts, such as the order that any woman seen wearing a chador should be made to remove her veil. This was a direct insult to the mullahs and Reza Shah became the immediate enemy of the clerics, but he did not let up. He continued to Westernize Iran, building roads, bridges, railway systems, and universities.

Reza Shah's monarchy ended badly, however. During World War II, the Allies felt he was sympathetic to the Germans, and because of Iran's vast oil reserves, they attacked our country-the Russians from the northwest and the British from the west and the south. They conquered Iran and unseated Reza Shah. The British sent him into exile in Africa for the rest of his life, and they appointed his twenty-two-year-old son, Mohammad Reza Shah, the new king of Iran. The new shah continued many of his father's policies, but he was more moderate, allowing people to practice their religion freely.

My grandmother agreed with the shah's approach to religion. This irritated my grandfather. "Khanoom, we are Persians, not Arabs. Islam is not for us. We are the nation of Zartosht, Zoroaster. The British have long helped the mullahs to keep us entangled with Islam and keep us busy with Allah and his punishments while they take advantage of our oil."

"Agha, bite your tongue. Our belief in G.o.d is just. It has nothing to do with the British. You haven't learned anything about Islam. How did I spend so many years with such an ignorant person?"

I learned what I knew about religion from my grandmother. She showed me that Islam was a religion of honesty, love, respect, courage, and justice. She told inspiring stories about the Prophet Mohammad and Imam Ali. One of my favorites was about how Ali would go out at night in disguise to help the poor. Although a leader with the highest regard among his people, he led a life of hards.h.i.+p and deprivation, disdaining material wealth and comfort.

My grandmother's voice still echoes in my mind. "One day Ali's brother, who was a blind man, approached Ali, saying to him, 'Ali, you have control of the treasury. Why don't you share some with your poor brother?'

"Ali told him to come and take what he needed. Then, instead of giving his brother the coins he wanted, he placed a candle in such a manner that caused his brother to touch its flame. His brother cried out in pain, demanding to know why Ali had done that.

"Do you know why he did that, Reza? Ali was the ruler and the most honest, trusted man in the eyes of his people. He wanted to show his brother that stealing was a sin. He shouldn't take money he didn't earn. If he could not bear the pain of a little burn on his finger, how could he bear Jahanam's fire, h.e.l.lfire?" She finished this story as she always did. "You must always choose right over wrong."

I loved both of my grandparents, but I secretly loved my grandfather a bit more. It was through his pa.s.sion for his garden that I learned how precious life was. Grandpa spent most of his leisure time in the garden tending to his fruit trees, red roses, white jasmines, and several small pots of flowers. Every afternoon, he filled his watering can in the pond and, holding on to the back of his long robe, bent and carefully nurtured his beloved flowers, speaking fondly to them as he did.

"Agha Joon, why are you talking to your flowers?" I asked him once while he was doing this.

Grandpa turned toward me. "Reza, my son, there is life in flowers. They are like humans. They have feelings. They are G.o.d's creation. Cherish them and they will flourish. Neglect them and they will perish."

I continued to learn from my grandfather as the years went by, even as the outside world became a bigger and bigger part of my life. Summers went by in a blur. Soon Naser and I, now seventeen, were preparing to enter the last year at our all-boys' high school, where we carried a heavy load: two-hour cla.s.ses of algebra, chemistry, physics, history, English, and more. Kazem went to a different high school and still had the job delivering meat orders for his father. He received some teasing for this from some neighborhood boys. Most young people in Tehran didn't work. Only those who lived in poverty would allow their sons to have jobs. Kazem was not ashamed of working and he brushed off the taunting.

Meanwhile, Naser and I were having the time of our lives. Now that I was older, I spent most of my days at my parents' house. While my parents were at work, Naser and I smoked cigarettes and drank beer there. Kazem occasionally joined us when he was done with his meat deliveries. We hid our bottles of beer from him because we didn't want to subject ourselves to his lectures about temperance. They were worse than the lectures my grandmother gave me.

One afternoon, when the three of us sat on the deck off my room, Naser put out his cigarette and stood up. "I'm thirsty. Is there anything to drink?"

"We should have some 7UP and c.o.ke in the fridge," I said. "Do you want me to go and get it?"

"No, I know my way around your house. You guys want some too?"

We both nodded. When Naser went inside, Kazem pulled his chemistry book from his bag, saying that he hoped Naser would help him prepare for a test the next day. Kazem needed to ace it to pa.s.s the course.

"He's got nothing to do," I said. "I'm sure he'll be able to help you. G.o.d, I hate chemistry."

Naser came back with three gla.s.ses on a tray. "Reza, turn off the lights. That'll keep the mosquitoes from attacking us."

I did so and Naser gave each of us a gla.s.s. As soon as I took a sip, I knew he was being mischievous. Under the dim light coming from the window in my room, I rolled my eyes at him. He raised his eyebrows and gestured to me to stay quiet.

"Kazem, have your drink," Naser said. "It is nice and cold."

Kazem got a paper from his bag and then picked up his gla.s.s. "Thanks, man."

Naser watched Kazem delightedly while I tried not to laugh. Kazem gulped the drink and then, like a cat sprayed with water, he jumped off his seat and spit the drink everywhere-including all over Naser. This caused Naser to jump as well. I turned on the lights and burst out with laughter.

"Man, you are so stupid," Kazem said, coughing alcohol. "What the h.e.l.l was that?"

"We call it Shams. Shams beer. A product of our fatherland."

As soon as Kazem heard the word beer, beer, he ran inside. We followed him and saw him try to wash his mouth under the kitchen faucet. he ran inside. We followed him and saw him try to wash his mouth under the kitchen faucet.

"Three times!" Naser said, still laughing. "Muslims should wash the alcohol off three times. Otherwise, you go to Jahanam Jahanam."

Kazem was scandalized. "Shut up, Naser. Why did you do that?"

"Have some fun, man. You won't go to h.e.l.l if you have a little fun in your life. It is just beer."

"Drinking is a sin. Don't you know anything about your religion? You should get a little serious about life, Naser. All you want to do is smoke, drink, and chase girls-and you are dragging Reza down with you."

Naser stopped laughing now. "What are you trying to say? That having a little fun means I'm not serious about life? You think the only thing a person can do is follow religious rules? And Reza can speak for himself. He is his own person."

"Stop this, you two," I said, trying to defuse the tension. "It was just a joke ..." Kazem narrowed his eyes at me. "... a bad one. Now you should start your chemistry homework before it gets too late."

I did not want Naser's prank to cause any trouble between the three of us, and I hated to choose sides. Naser apologized, but Kazem stayed angry for a while. Naser's helping Kazem prepare for his test ultimately allowed us all to relax. However, this night underscored for us that while we could enjoy soccer, watching movies, and going to my grandfather's gatherings as a trio, Kazem couldn't be a part of everything we did.

This, of course, didn't prevent Naser and me from doing those other things. Every day after school, we would go over to the nearby girls' school and watch the girls pour out into the street after their cla.s.ses, some smiling and flirting with us. We would put our home phone numbers on pieces of paper to give to them. Naser had grown into a handsome, st.u.r.dy six-footer with a full head of black hair that he kept carefully styled in a Beatles haircut. The Beatles were very popular with young people in Iran at the time. Girls were crazy about Naser and he made jokes and winked at them. Although I was a little shorter and had a slightly lighter complexion than Naser, most girls a.s.sumed we were brothers. We had the same hairstyle and even dressed alike in Levis and black s.h.i.+rts.

Once in a while, Naser would steal his dad's red Chevy Impala convertible and b.u.mp the music up while we waited outside the girls' high school. To impress the girls, we always had a pack of Winstons handy and played songs by the Bee Gees, Bob Dylan, or the Beatles. We were soon dating some of those girls, taking them to the discos opening all over Tehran and clandestinely making out with them. We never worried about getting into trouble, though Davood would have been furious with us if he knew we regularly stole his car. My only regret was that Kazem couldn't join us in most of our exploits. "He will gradually understand that life is not all about praying and practicing religion," Naser would say when I mentioned this to him.

As I was getting ready for my high school finals, my dad, a civil engineer who had studied in America, talked to me about the importance of education. He said I should remain focused on my studies and that I should always dream big. He convinced me that I should go to America to study computer science because he believed that computers were the future and that the universities in America would train me for this future better than those anywhere else in the world. In the spring of 1972, with the help of my aunt, who lived in Los Angeles, I enrolled at the University of Southern California (USC). Although it was a dream for any young Iranian to go to America, I would have preferred to go to the University of Tehran with Naser, but my father's persuasion was forceful and I could not argue with him.

Before I left, my family and close friends threw a good-bye party for me. During the event, I sat on the bench next to the fishpond watching the crowd wistfully. The people there were an essential part of me. I looked at my grandfather's flowers. It would be hard saying good-bye to them, too.

Naser and Kazem came by and sat on the bench next to me. I wanted to hug them and let them know how hard it was for me to move so far from them, but I couldn't find the words. I wished at that moment that we could stop time. We sat there quietly and said nothing for a while.

Finally, Naser slapped me on the back and said, "Hey, don't forget about us here. Write and tell us how life is in America."

I wrapped my arm around him and I pulled Kazem in with my other arm. "I will write to you every day."

Kazem patted my shoulder. "Remember the first time we made an oath? It was here, right on this bench."

"Friends forever," Naser said.

I nodded. "We swore on our lives to remain buddies."

"To our graves," Kazem said, fighting to choke back tears.

3.

COMING TO AMERICA.

I HADN'T SEEN my aunt Giti since the last time she visited us in Iran, when I was twelve years old, but I recognized her immediately when I departed the gate at LAX. She was waving a little sign with my name on it and I saw tears in her eyes as I approached. my aunt Giti since the last time she visited us in Iran, when I was twelve years old, but I recognized her immediately when I departed the gate at LAX. She was waving a little sign with my name on it and I saw tears in her eyes as I approached.

"Ahh, Reza jon, jon, look at you," she said as she hugged me. "You are a grown man! I am so happy to have a dear family member with me now." Aunt Giti lived alone. She had moved to America many years ago when she was about twenty to pursue her education. A few years later, my dad joined her to go to college before moving back home. Aunt Giti continued her education, became a chemist, and had been back to Iran only a few times to visit. look at you," she said as she hugged me. "You are a grown man! I am so happy to have a dear family member with me now." Aunt Giti lived alone. She had moved to America many years ago when she was about twenty to pursue her education. A few years later, my dad joined her to go to college before moving back home. Aunt Giti continued her education, became a chemist, and had been back to Iran only a few times to visit.

I kissed her cheeks, and hoping to avoid an emotional outburst I wasn't prepared for after my emotional departure from home, I opened my carry-on bag to give her the Persian pastries Grandma had baked. "Khanoom Bozorg made these just for you. She said you should have some right away while they are still fresh."

We took a cab to her house. Aunt Giti sat close to me with her arm around my shoulders, watching me intently. While we talked, I occasionally looked outside the window to explore the new city that I would come to call home. We didn't have anything like the LA highway system in Tehran, but in many other ways the landscape seemed familiar. Even the sunny weather was similar to what I knew. I found this comforting, as I was still wary about traveling all this distance to go to school.

Despite her busy work schedule, Aunt Giti had taken care of all my paperwork for USC and had prepared the guest room in her Tarzana house especially for me. In order to allow me to learn the language as quickly as possible, she suggested we speak only English to each other. She also signed me up for intensive English courses at the local Berlitz school. Though I had taken the language in high school, I was hardly fluent, and I knew Americans would have a difficult time understanding me if I didn't improve quickly. I therefore spent long hours in cla.s.srooms with exchange students from j.a.pan and Mexico just as inarticulate and homesick as I was.

I missed everything about home. I missed Naser and Kazem. I missed the Friday gatherings. I missed my grandfather's political debates with Davood. To subst.i.tute for some of this, I followed Iranian politics on TV, imagining what Agha Joon would say about the day's events.

When my first semester at USC began, I found myself surrounded by young people very rapidly speaking words I was still learning. Sometimes my head would hurt from concentrating so hard to understand people, but I loved this total immersion. I met a student named Johnny in one of my math cla.s.ses and we became fast friends. He invited me to his place and I asked Aunt Giti if it was okay for me to spend the night.

"You don't need my permission, Reza jon, jon," she said. "You are a big boy and just letting me know is enough. I trust you to do the right thing." This was my first experience of a significant difference I would discover between Iran and America-here, people weren't always looking over your shoulder. Here, they believed that if you were old enough to go to college, you were old enough to make your own decisions.

Johnny lived in a small three-bedroom town house in West LA with two roommates. One was his best friend, Alex. The other was a guy who was about to move out to live with his girlfriend. There was a party going on when I got there, and it was unlike any party I'd ever known-a long way from Davood's singing and Mina and Haleh dancing in their minidresses with parents watching every move we made.

In no time, college girls and boys filled Johnny's place. With them were bottles of vodka, tequila, and beer, along with a thick cloud of cigarette smoke. Some people were smoking marijuana in the small balcony off the living area. It was the closest I'd ever been to this kind of drug. In Iran some young people smoked hash, but Naser and I were never around anybody who did so.

Before I knew it, I was making out with a couple of girls whose name I didn't even know. Soon one of them called another girl to join us.

"Hey, Molly, come meet Reza. He is so cute. He has this cute accent. Reza, say something."

Molly was a tall blond girl, wearing the shortest cutoff jeans I'd ever seen. Her red tank top was way above her belly b.u.t.ton. She looked me in the eye, held my hand, and asked me to go to the balcony with her. The other girls were annoyed that Molly was taking me away from them, but they found the lap of another partygoer quickly enough.

I walked outside with the blond beauty. When we got there, she filled her cigarette paper with greenish leaves and lit it. She took a puff, and then pa.s.sed it to me. My heart started pounding. I did not want her to know it was my first time, but I also didn't know what to expect. "Mari-joo-ana?" I said, grabbing the joint with my thumb and forefinger.

She burst out laughing. "They were right-you are cute." She ran her fingers through my hair. "We call it pot, sweetie," she said as she kissed my lips.

I don't remember much of what happened after that. I woke up on the floor next to the kitchen at four o'clock the next afternoon with a horrible headache, an upset stomach-and the desire to go to another party as soon as possible. I liked this new life very much.

After that, Johnny and Alex made me part of their group, which accelerated my learning of the culture and the language far beyond what any Berlitz cla.s.s could. We hung out after our cla.s.ses, talking for hours about the meaning of life while we blasted Pink Floyd and Jethro Tull. Before I knew it, I was contributing to conversations without having to think. I started getting, and then making, jokes in English.

To make my college life in LA complete, I needed a car. People without cars in this town were second-cla.s.s citizens and I wanted no part of that. I pressured my father for one, explaining that because the city was so big and sprawling, cabs were useless. How else could I attend cla.s.ses, living so far from campus? Aunt Giti seconded this and Dad agreed to send the money. Johnny suggested a red Mustang with mag wheels and he helped me get a driver's license. As soon as I bought my "study mobile," I started dating LA girls and experiencing everything this town had to offer.

At first I wrote regularly to Naser and Kazem about life in the U.S. I told them about college life, my red Mustang, my new friends, LA girls (this last part only to Naser), and how different America was politically. I told them how student protesters could burn the American flag and deface photos of President Nixon right in front of the police, who just watched. In Iran, if you insulted the shah or the royal family in public, the notorious SAVAK police would arrest you and throw you into Evin Prison. There they'd beat you and demand to know the names of your friends.

In one of my letters to Naser I included a picture of myself leaning on the hood of the Mustang with my arms wrapped around Molly's waist. "Check out these two babes!" I wrote on the back of the picture.

Although I included a picture for Kazem in the letter I sent him at the same time, it was Johnny and Alex who stood next to me in that picture. "I now have the real Clint and John next to me," I wrote on the back of that picture. "We are hiding our shotguns in the trunk! Ha ha!" I signed it, "Your friend, Steve McQueen."

Both Naser and Kazem found life in America fascinating. Their letters were full of questions, particularly about politics. I was surprised that they wanted to know so much about this. The Vietnam War and Watergate dominated the news at this point, so these became the main topics of my letters. I also wrote about how student rallies protesting the war were more like social gatherings and about the stratification of the student body into stoners, jocks, Greeks (frat boys and sorority girls), and the rest of us.

Naser and Kazem were keenly interested in how Americans openly protested their leaders' policies. Naser found the American resistance particularly interesting while Kazem wondered if religious principle motivated Americans. I did my best to explain the subtle differences, knowing they both ultimately wanted proof that a society of free speech and protest could work.

Meanwhile, Johnny and Alex's roommate moved out and they were looking for someone to take his place. I started lobbying my parents to allow me to move in with them, explaining how it was important for me to be around college buddies to improve my language and study skills. How was I supposed to pursue my degree without a study sanctum close to campus shared with my fellow scholars?

My parents were suspicious at first. Alex and Johnny? Who are these people? What kind of families did they come from? After explaining that everyone who attended USC came from a good family and convincing Mom and Dad they were just the American version of Naser and Kazem, they approved.

I was part of a trio again, only this time all three of us partied and dated girls. I filled my new room with the posters of my favorite rock bands and half-naked women. I didn't have Grandma's maid coming into my room early in the morning to make my bed or clean up after me, and it showed. We had no rules whatsoever.

For the next three years, it was volleyball at the beach, football in the park, barbecues, road trips to Vegas, watching football games, and only occasionally cracking a book before going to the next party. Iran and my friends back home became a dimming memory. My letters to friends and family slowed to a trickle. I believed I was exactly where I wanted to be in the world.

Then, one evening in my senior year, I was watching TV when the phone rang.

Alex answered. "It's your mom. She sounds upset."

I put the phone to my ear and heard my mother crying. "Mom, what's wrong?"

"Your father ..." she said, and my heart sank through the floor. Between sobs she explained that doctors had diagnosed my dad, a lifelong smoker, with lung cancer. He was in critical condition. He was only fifty.

"Reza, he is everything to me," she said, her voice trembling. "If something happens, I don't know what I am going to do."

I booked the first flight home.

I arrived in Tehran for the first time in four years, planning to take a cab home, but Naser and Kazem surprised me at the airport. When I saw that they were both dressed in black, I got very nervous, but I dared not ask why they were wearing this color, trying to convince myself that they had a reason for this that had nothing to do with my father.

Naser's hair was now short and combed back. Kazem's hair was slightly longer than his old buzz cut, but he was neat and clean, as always. Their dress was a huge contrast to my sandals, tight T-s.h.i.+rt, loose jeans, and long, uncombed hair. At that moment I realized how time had separated us and this pierced my heart. I grabbed both of them in my arms and started crying like a little child.

"How did you know?" Naser said. "Who told you?" He thought I was crying over the loss of my dad, not realizing that he'd just confirmed it for me.

"How is my mom doing?" I said, trying not to cry harder.

Kazem patted my shoulder. "She is devastated. But that's the way it is, Reza. Hopefully, she'll cope. It is so good you are here. It will mean a lot to her."

"I am so sorry, Reza," Naser said. "May G.o.d bless your father's soul."

Naser bent his head. I'm sure that when he did so, he noticed my bare toes.

I felt embarra.s.sed by the way I looked. "I think I should get some proper clothes from my suitcase and change in the car."

On the ride home, we reminisced briefly about my father. I had a million thoughts about him running through my head. He'd encouraged me to live a full life. He taught me how to play soccer and how to swim. He helped me with school, telling fables about the tragic lives of boys who did not do their homework and the triumphant glories of boys who did. He made me promise never to waste my life or my time.

I looked out the window wondering if I was living up to that promise, considering how I'd spent most of my USC days. But I was immediately distracted by how much Tehran had changed since I'd been gone. Building cranes monopolized the skyline. Apartment buildings were thirty stories high. Pahlavi Boulevard, a cosmopolitan center with upscale shops and restaurants lining it, looked like a street in any big city in Europe or America. In four years, it seemed, Tehran had moved forward fifteen.

Naser started telling me how things had been while I was gone. Student protests in the universities had heated up with the number of SAVAK arrests climbing proportionately. Kazem said that the SAVAK arrested members of the clergy in the religious schools of Qom because they spoke against the shah.