Camelia by Camelia Entekhabifard Page B

mother followed, protesting, “WHY do we have to go outside?” The Guidance Patrol vehicle was pulled up right in front of the door. A second woman had gotten out and was opening the car door so they could put me inside. “Why? What have we done?” my mother asked. The bitch pointed and said, “Do you not see the state in which your daughter has brought herself out in public?” She pointed at my socks and said, “Could she have gone out wearing anything more vulgar than this?” People stopped around us to watch, but we knew no one would intercede on our behalf.
    Suddenly Mother turned to me and screamed, “You! You went out looking like this when I wasn’t looking?” She started beating me, yelling over her shoulder, “This girl is killing me! It’ll be good for my nerves when you take her away. I know her father will shut her up after that!” As her blows rained down on my head and back, the Sisters of Zeinab changed gears to rescue me from her abuse and calm her down. My mother wept while the women asked me if I wasn’t ashamed to go out looking like a punk when I had such a good mother and if I knew that “punk” was just another word for trash. They searched my purse, but all I had was a handful of change and a pocket mirror. I kept nodding, my head and eyes down, as I fixed my clothes and scarf. I was stinging with shame with dozens of people watching me. “Now you’re a lady.” Finally, they left. “Idiot!” my mother and Kati said in unison. I started crying and complained bitterly about the beating. My mother pinched my arm hard and said, “It worked, didn’t it?”

    The ancient tradition of Chaharshanbeh-ye Suri was forbidden. The new government wanted to replace Iranian culture with Islamic culture as Iranian culture was considered imperial. They wanted to erase the connections people felt to their past. For centuries, Iranians would build fires on the last Wednesday before Nouruz, the New Year, and jump over them to cast their bad fortunes into the flames. Then they could start the new year with a clean heart and an abundance of hope for the future. At sunset on Chaharshanbeh-ye Suri, the Tripods would roll out from their bases to take control of Tehran, but nothing could deter people. Our neighborhood held the largest celebrations. Kati and I would go through the alleys of Gisha to find the hawkers who hissed, “Bottle rockets! Firecrackers!” The guy would scan behind him for plainclothes police, then quickly ask, “How many?” We’d buy sparklers and handmade “grenades,” plastic bags of gravel and combustible powders. You’d have to throw these grenades really hard for them to explode. The next day, the local newspaper’s accident blotter would be filled with reports of people who were blinded, had their hands blown off, or were even killed.
    To scare us, the boys would throw grenades at our feet, and to show that we weren’t scared, we’d take grenades out of our purses and throw them right back. The hot gravel would strike my hands and cheeks. My cheeks would be burned, but I had no choice; Chaharshanbeh-ye Suri was a battle, and we had to keep it going. At sunset the inner lanes filled up with so much smoke that the Tripods didn’t dare enter the dense clouds. They parked and waited to strike. One year, a boy named Farid blew up a one-pound grenade that rattled the guts of the mobile patrol unit waiting at the mouth of Kucheh-ye Zanbaq, our little street. As our fireworks flared higher, their backup arrived from headquarters, and they attacked. Everyone
quickly flew into the nearest house with an open door. The Tripods were left stranded among the bonfires and smoking heaps of ash. Only a few spectators from outside the neighborhood fell into their clutches. In the courtyards we stayed up till after midnight, eating nuts and setting off the rest of the sparklers