Diversity

Fridays Are for Tea

The streets echo with Farsi, reverberate with the sounds of decaying cars wallowing down the road, ring in the calls of vendors. In the old parts of the city, calls to prayer drift down the streets. The sun is beginning to set, flushing the white high-rise buildings lining Tehran’s skyline with pinks and oranges. And beyond the city . . . well, the city never ends. It continues, choppy outcroppings of businesslike buildings punctuating long, alley-traced neighborhoods. The city goes to the edge of the world, then disappears into an indistinguishable tan haze. As Tehran fades with the sunset, it mirrors the waning of the sweltering thirty-five-degree Celsius heat. When I was little, Mamma would take me out to our balcony at sunset. As the sun sank down in the sky, we would watch the murals of the ayatollahs on every block disappearing into the darkness. By day, their stern eyes watched the city from fifteen-meter heights, and by night, they vanished. “Someday,” she would tell me, “those murals won’t even be there, watching us by day. Someday, when we are free.” That’s what I think of at sunset. Today is Friday, bringing welcome relief from the tedious hours of studying that Saturday through Thursday encompass. It is the day my mother takes off of work from her editing job; my father leaves his office. We have Fridays off for prayer, a religious holiday. The streets fill up today, more than usual, the numbers of bright vending stands increasing, more people milling, more life. The truth is, it has never been just tea I’m sixteen, old enough to go to pre-university soon, after high school. Old enough to vote in the elections this year—but Mamma says voting doesn’t really matter anyway. Elections are irrelevant. Religion dominates by rule. Mamma has told me this since I was little, her calm voice merging with twinges of bitterness. Today I spent the day with my friends, playing tennis in the park. But Friday nights are our most special. My father and brothers leave to pray, returning at eight for dinner. Since I was thirteen, Mamma has invited a group of her friends over during late afternoon. “For tea,” Mamma explains to my father when he asks. “Just tea.” The truth is, it has never just been tea. There is always tea, yes, but only to serve as a disguise for those who stop by without warning. I remember when Mamma first told me about the group. I was eleven, still in elementary school. She was folding my hijab for me, freshly washed, black and soft. “Shusha,” she had said, “haven’t you ever wished you didn’t wear the hijab each day?” Of course I didn’t want to wear it. I wanted to run limitless, play soccer and tennis, free of the awkward cloth. “I haven’t always wanted to wear it, Mamma. Not always.” Her fingers stroked the soft cloth, reminiscent but rough. I had always noticed that she treated her own veil roughly, not taking the same pride in the covering as she took in her other possessions. “I wouldn’t wear the veil if I didn’t have to,” Mamma told me. “If the clerics didn’t enforce it as a sign of purity. If I could be safe without it.” Mamma’s soft voice was strangely frank, distorted to fit the voice of a stranger, confiding in me as she never had before. I was unaccustomed to this new version of Mamma, treating me as if I was an important adult, as important as her intellectual friends, the filmmakers and writers she socialized with. “Shusha,” she said, her eyes deep and sincere below her sharp eyebrows. “Would you like to come with me this afternoon to have tea with my friends? We’re meeting at Gelareh’s home.” Mamma left every Friday afternoon to meet with her friends, women who treated me like the little girl I was. I had never been interested. “I don’t know, Mamma,” I answered, trying to be polite. I didn’t want to go. She smoothed my sleeve absentmindedly. “Shusha, we do not go just to chat, just for tea. It is a political group. A secret group.” “Oh.” Why was it secret? Mamma had told Baba about it every Friday at dinner. “Yes, I enjoyed myself this afternoon,” she would tell Baba, her voice polite. Or, “We talked about Sattareh’s new movie.” I had never once heard Mamma lie. “Why don’t you come, Shusha?” “All right, Mamma.” I smiled with my eyes, but my mouth was frozen. A secret group? “Good girl. But if Baba asks you anything about it, you mustn’t mention what we talk about. Say the tea was good.” “Yes, Mamma.” Mamma shouldn’t have talked to me this way, showing disrespect for my father. I knew Baba didn’t always like what Mamma wrote about in her women’s magazine. But she didn’t lie; she didn’t do things Baba wouldn’t approve of. That was the first time she had told me about the group. I had gone that night, to the gathering at Gelareh’s house, feeling uncomfortable and shy and brave. I had gone the week after, and the week after that, until I wanted to go, not just because Mamma wanted me there. I had become a member of the group, talking, organizing, writing. And I had always told Baba the tea was good. He was proud of me, proud that I was joining my mother’s circle of friends. Eventually, the meetings were moved to our house, conveniently held during my father and brother’s prayer time. That was five years ago. And today, I keep walking home, hurrying to make it home before it gets too dark. By darkness, our neighborhood is like a graveyard, only bearing the residue of the day’s busy activities. The only life that leaks onto the street is from houses, small amounts of light and noise that drift out into the cool evening air. Finally, our block comes into view, cars dispersed along the street

Home

Taja closed her eyes and took in the nauseating smell of smokers and mothballs. She knew this smell. All buses smelled like this, and normally, it didn’t bother Taja. But today, it reminded her of her parents. Her parents who took her on bus rides every Saturday to go to the Indian market she loved. The swirling chaos of it all, vendors sitting under tarps showing off their products, the spicy smell of chicken masala, the sweet and salty smell of chaat, filling Taja’s nose. She could taste the sweet honey from her favorite dessert, gulab jamun, on her tongue. She could feel the sponginess on her teeth. She remembered it all so clearly. Taja clutched her bus seat, her nails digging into the cheap leather. She felt very small. She stared out the window, sensing the urge to get off at the next stop, 14th Street, and make her way to the barren marketplace. “You have no right to say no to foreign customers, you little rascal!” It had been years since she had been to the market. The last time, she had been with her parents, holding their hands tightly. Taja sniffled. The sun was hurting her eyes, and all she wanted to do was crawl under the bus seat. The Indian vendors had left three years ago. Taja remembered reading in the newspaper about the plans to turn the marketplace into a bowling alley. When the city council had finally kicked the Indian vendors away, sending them back to their country, it became obvious that there was not enough money for the bowling alley. Deep down, Taja wished that the bowling alley had been built; it would stop her mind from returning to her parents and India. Of course, if the Indian market still existed, maybe life wouldn’t be so melancholy either. *          *          * Taja arrived at the King Soopers fifteen minutes later. She stepped down the bus stairs and crossed the street to the big store. Shopping carts were stacked in rows in front of the two big doors. Taja found that the King Soopers was very convenient, it was right next to her university. She could do her grocery shopping, then go straight to classes where she majored in biology. Taja grabbed a shopping basket, then went into the store, directly to the frozen-food aisle, to get the most important food: naan. She reached into the cool fridge, goosebumps crawling up her arms. She pulled out her favorite brand. Over the years, she had tried them all. None of them were the same as the steaming hot, real naan that used to be sold at the market. The microwavable kind would have to do. Setting it into the basket, she made her way to the vegetable aisle to get some spinach. She would make saag paneer that night. Taja remembered her last year of high school. The last year her parents would make her saag paneer. “We want you to get a good education, Taja,” her mother had said. “We will return to India for you. We will pay for you to follow your dream. Life here is expensive. In India, we can live for a lower cost, while you go to college. Taja, if you go to college, you could get a real job. You could make money, and one day, pay to return home to us!” Taja had swallowed her paneer and looked down. “OK, Mama,” she had said. Taja pushed the memory to the back of her head and continued down the aisle to go buy spices. Once her basket was full, Taja headed down to the cashier. She placed her items on the dusty conveyor belt and opened her handmade wallet her mother had sent her from India. The cashier looked up. “Where are you from?” he asked suspiciously. “I’m from India,” Taja replied. “India, huh?” “Yes, what’s wrong with that?” Taja asked. But the cashier didn’t answer. He stood up from his stool and bent down over Taja. His height was threatening. “I don’t serve Indian customers here!” he bellowed. “You don’t belong here, go back to your own country! I don’t want your dirty little bodies in this store, so get out! Hand over those groceries and get out!” Taja couldn’t believe his painful words. She stepped back from the counter, holding back the hot tears. She clutched her wallet, and gulped. The cashier glared at Taja, waiting to pounce on his prey. Then a lady with light blond hair and a huge cart full of food placed her hand on Taja’s shoulder. “You have no right to say no to foreign customers, you little rascal! This poor girl just needs some food!” The lady’s voice was louder and sterner than Taja expected. “I expect you to give her the food for free as an apology for what you just said. Seriously.” “You think you can boss a cashier around?” “Do I need to call the police?” The cashier, obviously taken by surprise, swallowed, then nodded. He grabbed Taja’s groceries, swiped them under the scanner, and never asked for the fifteen dollars they cost. Taja tried to thank the woman, but she never looked up from the edition of People she was about to purchase. *          *          * Taja left the store full of mixed feelings. Grateful, sad, mad, excited, relieved. Walking down the sidewalk towards her school, Taja looked down at her feet. Her long black hair shimmered in the sun, and all she could think about was returning to India. One more year of college, a few more years of working, then she could buy a ticket home. Home. No, Taja shook her head. This was her home. This was her home ever since she and her family had moved here in search of a better life. This was her home ever since she was a short little five-year-old, mesmerized by the tall buildings, the flushing toilets, the greasy hamburgers that didn’t exist in her

Bravery

I lay on my back, gazing up at the sky above me, a clear aquamarine, disturbed only by small wisps of white, scattered here and there as if the master of the sky had tossed flower petals over his shoulder to give flair to the expanse of endless blue. When I closed my eyes, the soft dappled butter of sunlight oozed over my eyelids, filling me up to the brim with the honey-like warmth. I don’t know how long I would have lain there, letting the sunlight engulf me, if a shadow hadn’t fallen over my golden repose. The sudden cool in the air made me open my eyes and sit up. The shadow belonged to a face full of fear and the air of a gazelle, ready to flee at the first sign of movement. That face belonged to my mother. “Tapiwah,” she began, her voice tight and full of terror, “we need to get into the house. Now. It’s a matter of life and death.” That stunned me. My mother was never one to use her words lightly, so I knew this was not something to be pushed into the back of my mind. Without another word, my mother turned and started toward our small village, not running or walking, but a combination of both. I sat there for another moment or two and then leapt to my feet, dashing toward my mother. “What’s… the… matter?” I asked her, gasping, once I’d finally caught up to her. Her face still bore the resemblance of a gazelle— attentive and on edge. “It is the White Demons. They are here.” I stopped in my tracks. I tried to breathe, but no air filled my lungs. I swallowed once, then twice, trying to rid my throat of the rock that had taken up residence there. “Tapiwah, we need to get into the house. Now. It’s a matter of life and death.” “H-here? They’re here?” My voice sounded tinny and frail, even to my own ears, nothing like the courageous and calm image I tried to project to everyone—others in the village, my brothers, even my mom. They needed the strength from someone ever since Father had been taken away. It did them good to have someone to look to for confidence. “Yes. That is why we must hurry to hide. They must not find us.” My heart was pounding so loudly I thought the White Demons must hear it from whatever far-off corner of the universe they came from. I sent a prayer up to that blue, blue African sky and followed my mother into the house. Our small shack consisted of one room. My three brothers were already there, casting worried glances around the room as if the White Demons were hiding in some nook or cranny, ready to jump out at any second. As soon as she closed the door, my mother walked over to our small reed-constructed rug and lifted it, revealing a petite trap door, which she removed. “In you go,” she proclaimed, gently but firmly plopping each of my brothers into the dank hole underneath our floor. She then turned to me, but I stepped away from her. “I’m not going in there.” “Not now, Tapiwah. Not when I need you to stay safe. Staying in there is the sensible thing to do.” “Father wouldn’t have done it.” The words came spilling from my mouth the way a coconut falls from its leafy perch. “No, he wouldn’t have. And look where that got him.” Each word she said was strained and I knew that I had said the wrong thing. “Father was brave.” “This isn’t about Father! This is about…” She froze, and suddenly I knew why. The clack of heels on wood was sounding outside our door. The next few seconds were pandemonium. I was flung into the pit and the trap door was sealed above me. I heard a crash. The clack of metal on wood filled the small room, accompanied with voices that demanded and scolded in a harsh language that sounded like gibberish to me. Then the noises were gone, and I sat with my brothers in the black darkness. I sat there, a statue, until I was prodded in the back by a small fearful hand. I turned around and could just make out my brothers in the darkness. “Where’s Mother?” one of them asked. Instead of answering them, I reached above me and pushed up the trapdoor. I was hit in the face by a ray of blinding white light. Shading my eyes, I blinked until I could understand what I was seeing. The source of the light was a hole in the wall, ragged in form. As I stared at it, I could clearly picture what had happened when I was crammed under the trap door. I saw my mother flinging me into the small hole and slamming it shut, then looking for an escape route and finding none, she had flung herself through the back wall just as the White Demons barreled through the door. There was no saying what had happened to her next. She could be gone forever. A sob of desperation welling up in my throat, I launched myself through the hole in the wall and out onto the African plain. The White Demons were easy to track. The spikes on their shoes left impressions in the earth and there were a fair number of them. I started running, my senses alert, half expecting the White Demons to jump out of the bush and capture me. Long after I had started panting for air, I found the White Demons. They were positioned halfway up a small hill that ended in a cliff sloping down to the sea. I surveyed the scene more closely and, with rising horror, saw that they were advancing on a lone figure with its back to a cliff overlooking the sea. That figure was my mother. She was staring at