the inhumane treatment of their captives. They quickly push Doctor into the car and take off. The agent with the radio looks toward the roof and blows me a kiss as the car is pulling out of the alley. I swear to myself that someday I will find him, and kill him. Never in my life have I felt as much anger, not even when those bullies were beating me up at school, or when Faheemeh’s brothers bloodied Ahmed’s face.
Zari runs after the car, and the neighbors run after her. Zari’s mom faints on the sidewalk, and some of the women, including my own mother, try to revitalize her by spooning hot water and sugar into her slackened mouth. Mr. Naderi is leaning against a tree. He rocks back and forth, whispering incomprehensible words. The alley is now crawling with people. I wonder if anyone saw the agent thank me before disappearing into the night.
I rush downstairs, my body still shaking, my knees weak, and my nerves raw. In the alley I hear a little girl asking her mother what is going on. She bends over and lifts her daughter up, holding her tight against her chest. Zari is crying hysterically as the neighbors try to restrain her. I run up to her and grab her and take her face in my hands and call her name a few times. She recognizes me, throws herself into my arms, and weeps. The sweetness of her embrace could not have come at a more bitter time.
I can see my father consoling Mr. Naderi, when suddenly I hear a loud cry from the end of the alley. Doctor’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Sobhi, are rushing toward the rest of us. Doctor’s mother beats herself in the head and scratches her face with her fingernails as she howls her anguish. His father limps toward us with a tormented look on his face. A number of women, including Iraj’s mother, are trying to stop Doctor’s mom from hurting herself. Her cries are agonizingly painful to hear. Doctor once told me that his mother used to follow him to school from a distance every day until he was in the tenth grade. I can’t imagine her suffering.
I see my own mother standing close to Mrs. Naderi. She’s looking in my direction. Somehow, I know what she’s thinking, even though I’m too young to know what parents think. She’s thanking God that I wasn’t the one taken away.
Doctor’s father sees his son’s blood on the sidewalk and collapses at the spot with a cry that could break the devil’s heart. He dips his left hand, the only hand he has left, in the blood, brings it up to his face, and kisses it as he wails in despair. I want to run over to hug him, to kiss his hand, to ask for his forgiveness, but I can’t. I don’t even want to admit to myself that it was my carelessness that gave Doctor away. I wish I could clench my fist, shake it in God’s face, and howl defiantly. But that would reveal my disgraceful secret. So instead I take my head in my hands and bite my lower lip so hard that a stream of blood flows down my chin.
9
The Anarchist
Life goes on, and nights like the Doctor’s night end, but the impact lingers. We Persians are not sophisticated when it comes to dealing with pain. I’ve heard that people in the West, especially in the United States, seek therapy when they experience emotional traumas. Our therapist is time. We trust that time heals everything, and that there is no need to dwell on pain. We don’t seek psychological treatment because we’re not as fragile as the Westerners, or so we claim. Psychological interventions are designed to cure the mind, not the spirit. We bring solace to our hearts by displaying our emotions. When grief strikes, we do whatever it takes to our bodies to wring relief from our wounded souls, without apology or regret. We may beat ourselves, tear our clothes and scream our sorrows, and there is always company, as those around us share in our suffering by doing the same.
I was once watching a Hollywood film and noticed the restraint Americans exercise during funerals. I asked my father why we were so
Zari runs after the car, and the neighbors run after her. Zari’s mom faints on the sidewalk, and some of the women, including my own mother, try to revitalize her by spooning hot water and sugar into her slackened mouth. Mr. Naderi is leaning against a tree. He rocks back and forth, whispering incomprehensible words. The alley is now crawling with people. I wonder if anyone saw the agent thank me before disappearing into the night.
I rush downstairs, my body still shaking, my knees weak, and my nerves raw. In the alley I hear a little girl asking her mother what is going on. She bends over and lifts her daughter up, holding her tight against her chest. Zari is crying hysterically as the neighbors try to restrain her. I run up to her and grab her and take her face in my hands and call her name a few times. She recognizes me, throws herself into my arms, and weeps. The sweetness of her embrace could not have come at a more bitter time.
I can see my father consoling Mr. Naderi, when suddenly I hear a loud cry from the end of the alley. Doctor’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Sobhi, are rushing toward the rest of us. Doctor’s mother beats herself in the head and scratches her face with her fingernails as she howls her anguish. His father limps toward us with a tormented look on his face. A number of women, including Iraj’s mother, are trying to stop Doctor’s mom from hurting herself. Her cries are agonizingly painful to hear. Doctor once told me that his mother used to follow him to school from a distance every day until he was in the tenth grade. I can’t imagine her suffering.
I see my own mother standing close to Mrs. Naderi. She’s looking in my direction. Somehow, I know what she’s thinking, even though I’m too young to know what parents think. She’s thanking God that I wasn’t the one taken away.
Doctor’s father sees his son’s blood on the sidewalk and collapses at the spot with a cry that could break the devil’s heart. He dips his left hand, the only hand he has left, in the blood, brings it up to his face, and kisses it as he wails in despair. I want to run over to hug him, to kiss his hand, to ask for his forgiveness, but I can’t. I don’t even want to admit to myself that it was my carelessness that gave Doctor away. I wish I could clench my fist, shake it in God’s face, and howl defiantly. But that would reveal my disgraceful secret. So instead I take my head in my hands and bite my lower lip so hard that a stream of blood flows down my chin.
9
The Anarchist
Life goes on, and nights like the Doctor’s night end, but the impact lingers. We Persians are not sophisticated when it comes to dealing with pain. I’ve heard that people in the West, especially in the United States, seek therapy when they experience emotional traumas. Our therapist is time. We trust that time heals everything, and that there is no need to dwell on pain. We don’t seek psychological treatment because we’re not as fragile as the Westerners, or so we claim. Psychological interventions are designed to cure the mind, not the spirit. We bring solace to our hearts by displaying our emotions. When grief strikes, we do whatever it takes to our bodies to wring relief from our wounded souls, without apology or regret. We may beat ourselves, tear our clothes and scream our sorrows, and there is always company, as those around us share in our suffering by doing the same.
I was once watching a Hollywood film and noticed the restraint Americans exercise during funerals. I asked my father why we were so
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