Rage against the veil : the courageous life and death of an Islamic dissident

283 Pages·2007·2.19 MB·English

by  Darabi

PARVIN DARABI AND ROMIN P. THOMSON

For Homa.
How happy is a bird who has never seen a cage? Even happier is the one who
has fled the cage. They have broken our wings and opened the doors of the cage.
-Sadegh Sarmad
Acknowledgments
1. Freedom Flames
2. Horror Scenes of a Marriage
3. Dangerous Games
4. Lectures
5. An End to Sacrifices
6. The Importance of Oil
7. The Eagle and the Raven
8. Nothing for Decent Girls
9. Medical School
10. In the Tentacles of the Savak
11. An Enigmatic Decision
12. A Wedding with Obstacles
13. A Long-Awaited Departure
14. A Disastrous Christmas
15. Seeds of Separation
16. On Her Own
17. Democracy Will Replace the Monarchy
18. A Black Day for Iran
19. Our Ailing Father's Last Request
20. A Stranger in Her Own Home
21. Family Hostilities
22. Fading Glory of Bygone Days
23. The Unwelcome Invitation
24. The Black Shadow of the Chador
25. Behind the Walls of Depression
26. A Rich, Poor Country
27. The Doors Are Closing
28. The Attempt to Escape
29. At the Abyss
30. February 12, 1994
Epilogue
Index
The authors wish to thank Helmut Feller for his contributions and expert advice.
Likewise sincere thanks are extended to the late Gustav Luebbe, Anja Kleinlein
and Peter Molden without their encouragement this project would not have been
realized. Our gratitude includes Betty Mahmoody, our relatives and friends, as
well as Reiner D. Meier and we thank them for their assistance and that we have
been allowed to stir up their memories with our questions.
To our mother and grandmother we would like to show our sincere respect
and assure her of our deep understanding of her ordeal and its circumstances. We
share with her the grief of Homa's too early departure.
February 22, 1994
When my uncle Hossain called from Iran to tell me what had happened, my
sister had already been buried. It was early and the phone woke me. Half asleep,
I picked up the receiver and heard his voice tremble.
"Parvin?"
"Hossain, what is it?"
"Sweetheart, it's Homa, she-" He wheezed softly and paused.
"What do you mean?!" I sat up quickly. "What's happened to Homa?! Is she
all right?" I had been worried about her for several months. "Is she dead?!" I was
screaming. Over the static, I heard him crying. I also heard my mother in the
background. She was hysterical. They were bawling over the phone and I didn't
understand why.
I was bracing myself for awful news. I knew my sister was very depressed
and disappointed with her life in Iran. I feared the worst and kept asking my
uncle, but he wouldn't stop crying. I was terrified and my heart sank when I tried
to imagine what it could have been. I just kept asking, "Is she dead?! Is she
dead?!"
Finally he gained his composure long enough to say "Yes." And then he
began crying again.
As my head turned toward my husband, I started to cry. I felt myself sliding
off the edge of the bed and falling down on the floor. I sat there, hunched over,
holding the phone against my ear and my hand over my mouth. Tears rolled
down my face and I felt paralyzed.
My uncle's voice broke repeatedly as he told me how Homa and my mother
had spent the day together before she died. He told me they'd had lunch together
at Homa's house. He said my mother was napping when Homa quietly left. She
walked to her car and drove to the northern part of Tehran, an area called
Tajrish.
My uncle fought to keep his composure between every word. "She must have
stopped somewhere to buy the gasoline," he said.
"I don't understand!" I wasn't thinking. I had no idea.
"Oh sweetheart! It's awful. I don't want to tell you. It's your sister; it shouldn't
be this way!"
"What happened to her?!"
He didn't answer me for a while. He only wept. I could tell he was trying to
explain, but each time he started to speak his voice would cripple and he would
cry more. It was hard to listen to him. He sounded helpless.
"Just wait," I told him. "I'll wait for you. You can tell me when you're ready."
He cried a while longer and finally caught his breath long enough to explain.
"Sweetheart, your sister drove to Tajrish. She went there with the gasoline and
she burned herself. She burned in front of hundreds of people. She burned like
that-with everyone watching."
I heard him, but I struggled to comprehend the things he was telling me. It
was as though he was speaking too quickly for me to hear the words. As he
spoke, what he was telling me would sink in, and then the horrible sadness I felt
would overcome me and I wouldn't be able to hear him anymore. The realization
of what he was telling me fell onto me in waves of immense pain.
I couldn't listen anymore. When he called, I only wanted to know if she was
dead. That, to me, was the worst-case scenario. I thought there would be nothing
that he could say to me about my sister that could be more awful. I was naive.
I asked to talk to my mother. She came on the line and her voice was hoarse.
I could tell she'd been crying for a long time. She was devastated. She couldn't