“Should you shield the canyons from the windstorms you
would never see the true beauty of their carvings”
Elisabeth Kubler-Ross
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Early Years
I always wondered why I have lived such a different life
from anyone else I know. Nothing about my life was ever
ordinary, not even my birth. Even to Iranian culture standards. I
was born in Iran, Tehran in my own home. Our home was a very
beautiful and large house that my dad built from the ground up. It
was a 2 story home with the largest balcony in the neighborhood.
All single family homes in Iran had balconies, some small and
some very large. The yard was filled with fruit and flowering
trees, a basement, and a small shallow pool. Tehran is the capital
of Iran, a beautiful town with a lot of modernization, but still keeps
its unique Middle Eastern charm. My mom’s name was Mehri,
and she was from a city in the North of Iran close the Caspian
Sea, called Gorgan. My father’s name was Javid, and he was
from a city called Kashan which is located in the center of Iran.
Kashan is famous for their beautiful Persian rugs. My mother was
married away to a peasant farmer at the age of 13 against her
will, and had a son from that marriage. She was used and abused
like a slave, and forced to do heavy hard labor dawn till dusk. Her
son was ripped away from her and raised by the mother-in-law.
She eventually escaped and never returned to the family. She
reunited with her son later in life but not until he was a teenager.
My mom and dad met in Babolsar which was also a city by the
Caspian Sea where my father was on a work assignment as a
civil engineer building the tunnel that went through the Alborz
Mountain. His specialty was buildings, tunnels, and roads. My
mom’s family had moved to Babolsar after she ran away from her
ex-husband, due to the shame it created for her family. My mom
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and dad were married the arranged marriage way. Her step father
was not happy about having my mother back living in his house
again, and wanted her out of his house, and married off again.
My father was 32 years older than my mother, and surprisingly
the age difference was not considered a problem. At the time of
marriage my mom was only 16 and my father was 48. It was not
unusual for a man to be 15-20 years older than a woman at the
time of marriage, but 32 years age difference was excessive even
to Iran’s standards in 1950’s. They lived in Babolsar for a year
before they decided to move back to Tehran and settle down. My
father preferred to live in a small town like Babolsar, but my mom
was very anxious to see what it was like to live in the capital. My
father bought a large piece of land from my uncle who was a real
estate tycoon, and built a house on top of it from the ground up.
Being a civil engineer, he designed the house himself. At the time
he built that house, other than my uncle’s mansion, there were
barely any other homes around, but soon after that the
neighborhood grew, and it became a populated part of town.
Soon after moving to the house my mom got pregnant, and gave
birth to my sister Neda in 1959. My father had his heart set on a
son, but was OK with having a daughter as long as he gets his
son next time around. 2 years after Neda’s birth, my mom got
pregnant again.
I was born in 1961, the same year Kennedy became president
in United States. My birth was premature and unexpected when
my mother just turned 7 months pregnant and delivered me in our
home without any help. As a result, my mother hemorrhaged
heavily, and I never spent a day in an incubator. My mom never
lactated due to premature delivery, and hemorrhaging
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complications and I was being fed cow’s milk. At times I was fed
by the gypsy’s who would come through our neighborhood. It was
very common for Gypsy’s to come through the town, and take odd
jobs such as cleaning, or washing clothes, to make extra money.
Especially if there was a Gypsy who was breast feeding her own
baby, would offer to breast feed other people’s babies as well for
a small amount of money, to give mom a break, or if mom was too
ill or tired to breast feed her own baby. By word of mouth they
knew very quickly which doors to knock on, to get what the work
they want. My mom hired nursing Gypsy’s as many times as she
could afford, to breast feed me. If there was a nursing gypsy
available, I would be breast fed, otherwise cow’s milk had to do. I
was breast fed by 2 dozen Gypsy women approximately. I
wonder at times if having had so many Gypsy women’s breast
milk, helped shaped my personality or thoughts, or directions in
life. Ironically I have always been fascinated and attracted to long
gypsy skirts, and chandelier gypsy earrings! Most Halloween’s my
costume is be a gypsy!
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Divorce
After discovering that my mother gave birth to another girl, my
father left town in anger and resentment of not getting a son he
wished for. My father was married once before to a German
woman, and had a son. They both died in a tragic car accident,
leaving my dad with strong yearning to have another son. In
those days it was common belief that some women are capable of
having boys, while other women were unfortunate in that aspect,
and can only produce girls. It was of extreme importance that a
man has a son to carry and restore the family’s name. Iran was a
male dominated society as was the rest of Middle East, and some
families really believed that it had to do with the woman’s genes
that determined if she can produce male infants. If that tendency
was demonstrated by her family history, meaning if women in a
given family have had higher number of boy to girl ratio, then that
girl was a lucky girl and presumed to be a good wife to obtain.
This was a big deal, and unforgiving offense for a woman to not
be able to produce a male offspring, and number one cause for
divorce. Even the king of Iran, Mohammad Reza Shah, divorced
his first wife Fawzia, who was a stunningly beautiful Egyptian
princess, because she failed to give him a son. All of her beauty,
love, and status were not enough to save the marriage, if she
could not give him a son. He eventually divorced her and married
his second wife, Farah Diba, a Persian woman, who gave him 2
sons and 3 daughters.
My father left without a trace and never told anyone where he
was going and how long he will be gone. Just imagine my mother
going through all this with no money, and no one to help her. She
had sold all her jewelry, to help raise small amount of money to
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pay the Gypsy’s, and provide food for us. Six months after my
father left my mother ran out of money. She finally broke down
and went to see my paternal grandmother who was very well to
do, fair, and a kind hearted mother in law. Her name was
Fatemeh, but we called her Khanoom Hajieh, which means “the
woman who had visited Mecca, which is the holiest meeting sites
for Moslems, and attended the religious Hajj ceremonies”.
Khanoom Hajieh knew what it was like to raise children without a
father. She was pregnant with her 3rd child, my father, when her
husband passed away unexpectedly. She raised 3 sons on her
own, doing odd but respectable jobs. But she also had very
supportive family who helped her out. I remember she had the
most beautiful eyes, and the color was a dark shade of purple. I
had never seen eye color like hers in anyone else. At age 90 she
moved in with my uncle who was the oldest of 3 sons, when she
could no longer care for herself. She hired a troop of men to find
my father and bring him back. They were able to locate my father
in another town called Shiraz, in the south of Iran, and brought
him back to Tehran. Shiraz by the way is the city where the
“Shiraz Wine” was named after.
My father was not very happy about being back, but had no
choice since he knew the one behind this mission impossible
operation was his own mother, and he minded his mother very
much. He claimed he was stressed and had to go on a vacation,
but he could not fool Khanoom Hajieh. He complained that it was
entirely my mother’s fault for having another girl. He claimed that
he could not emotionally deal with yet another daughter, and he
had his heart set to have a boy. Although my grandmother pulled
him to the side and gave him a lecture for his irresponsible
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choices, in the same token she made excuses for him, and asking
us to forgive him. She claimed Javid lost his father when she was
still pregnant with my dad, and as a consequence he never
learned how to act like a father. My father didn’t act like he was
asking for forgiveness though, as a matter of fact he had a chip
on his shoulders, and resentful for being dragged back against his
will. My father stayed with us for the next 10 years, and basically
pretended like I didn’t exist. He could not run away anymore, but
at the same time he refused to accept me as his daughter. He
was loving and supportive with my sister Neda, but when it came
to me, he would not even acknowledge he had another daughter,
me! When he would come back from work, he said hello to
everyone but me. He would buy toys for Neda, but not for me. On
occasions he would hug and hold Neda or engage in activities
with her, but I don’t ever remember being held, hugged, or loved
by him. I suppose he felt like he got stuck with a daughter he
didn’t ask for, and neglecting me was his way of protesting my
existence. Even when he died, I discovered he had taken my
name out of his birth certificate, pretending as if I was not his
daughter, so I won’t be a beneficiary to inheritance. In Iran
children’s names are hand written in both parents birth
certificates. He had to go through extraordinary measures to get
rid of my name out of his birth certificate, and claimed he lost it so
he can have a new one issued without my name in it. He must
have wanted to disown me so much that he was willing to do that.
Before that, I was always told by my grandmother, and my mom
that he loved me in his own way, but he is incapable of showing
his love to me, but after seeing that my name didn’t exist in his
birth certificate, it was proof to me that once again that he didn’t
have any love for me, and I didn’t exist in his world. I was merely
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an unwelcomed, unwanted stranger in his world. It was very
heart breaking, but unfortunately what I ended up learning was
that I am not love worthy. My mother on the other hand took a
different approach. She made sure she gave me enough love and
attention to make up for the loss of my father’s love. I was never
spanked or disciplined, but Neda was spanked on regular basis
by my mother, because she was a hard to manage child. I
remember Neda’s temper tantrums, constant high pitched brain
piercing screams, and unruliness. Neda’s punishment was
borderline physical abuse, and there is no justification for that.
Naturally Neda was always daddy’s girl, and I gravitated toward
my mom and relied on her to get attention and affection. Even
though I got plenty of love from my mom, still that didn’t take
place of a father’s love.
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Meeting My Step Father
During the time my mom and dad were married, my dad had
been having numerous affairs, spending large amounts of money
for these women, however, when it came to us, he always had an
excuse for not giving us any money for food, clothes, or school
supplies. Strangely he was known to be a kind hearted giving
man in the community, giving to poor people, buying them
televisions, refrigerators, or pay for a whole wedding when the
family was unable to do so. However, when it came to his own
family, his charity was nonexistent. I remember my mom sewing
and repairing holes in our clothes, and constantly arguing with my
father about why he does not take care of his own family first.
After being married for about 10 yrs, my father decided he no
longer wanted to be a married man, and he wanted to be free. He
claimed that when he got married to my mother, he wanted to live
in a small town, away from city pressures, but my mom insisted
that they move to Tehran. He also claimed that he resents that,
and he wants to be free again, so he can live and work where he
wants out of Tehran. My father was also felt embarrassed and
awkward as people would often mistake him to be Mehri’s father
instead of being her husband. He told my mother to go and find
yourself another husband, and I will let you stay in my house until
you have found someone else. This was a very uncommon
practice in Iran, as a man’s family is dearest to him, and family
always stays together, and divorce is never an option.
Devastated, my mother tried and tried to change his mind, and
begged him not to break the marriage, but eventually realized that
he is serious, and she better find another husband. She felt like
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she was being thrown away like trash, after spending 10 of the
best years of her life with my father. She felt like she endured his
bad temper, womanizing ways, penny pinching behavior, and
giving him 2 children was all for nothing. She was understandably
bitter and resentful. This would be her 2nd divorce, and in Iran it
was taboo to be divorced once, let alone twice. In 1969, Persian
women did not typically have a profession or education to be able
to support them, and having a husband was absolutely necessary
for financial survival. My mother was no exception, as her
education was limited to 9th grade. Although today in Iran
approximately 40% of women are educated beyond high school,
in 1960’s only a small percentage of women had finished high
school. Those women typically came from wealthy families. My
mother came from a very poor and abusive family, who married
her off to my father because he came from a prominent wealthy
family, without any regards to the fact that he was 32 years older
than her.
My mother had a brother named Taher, but he was struggling
financially as well, had five children of his own, and not able to
support my mother as well. Taher had a daughter named Goli,
who was brain damaged and disfigured due to a motor cycle
accident before she was born when she was still in the womb. As
a result, she had badly fractured leg which didn’t grow to be the
same size as her other leg. As she grew it was obvious that the
problem of having a short leg and having corrective surgery is
becoming an absolute necessity. Taher asked my mother to help
find a doctor who can do this surgery. He was concerned about
the cost of surgery, and was hoping to find a doctor who will work
with them to come up with a way to pay for it such as financing.
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With that in mind my mom made an appointment with a surgeon
who was popular to be the best in that specialty. After meeting
him and having an evaluation, the orthopedic surgeon agreed to
perform the surgery for her. It was there when my mother met the
surgeon, who eventually became my stepfather, and it was love at
first sight for both of them. My mother was young and very
beautiful, and he was very handsome, educated, successful and a
gentleman himself. He had many women after him, and was
newly divorced. Soon after meeting they ended up getting
married against all odds and disapprovals. My step father’s name
was Dr. Aram Noori, who was an orthopedic specialist and
surgeon, as well as a Lieutenant General under Shah’s Army
when they got married. By the time he retired he was a general in
Shah’s Army. We had to call him Mr. Doctor, to be respectful.
He was married to a woman who was a colleague, a popular
gynecologist. She led him to believe that he fathered the 2
daughters they had during a 9 years of marriage. Soon after the
girls started school, the truth became clear to Mr. Dr that he is not
their biological father. He found that out by running in to an old
friend of the family who was also the family doctor. His name was
Dr. Afshin; a balding, jolly, short statured doctor in his 80’s who
was retired already. Mr. Dr was told as a child that Dr. Afshin had
done an operation to remove a benign tumor from his testicles.
Dr. Afshin only told Mr. Dr’s father the truth. The truth was that Mr.
Dr will never be able to have children of his own. This information
was only shared with Mr. Dr’s father, and the rest of the family
was lead to believe that the operation did not alter his fertility.
Selfish or not, this was a very common practice in Iran to hide
information from the patient, in order to “save him/her from
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unnecessary grief”. For example if a patient is diagnosed with
cancer, the doctor will only share that with the family and leaves it
up to them to either share it with the patient or not. The whole
family will usually hide the bad news from the patient and
everyone else would keep it a secret. So when Mr. Dr ran in to
Dr. Afshin almost 40 years later, and discovered that Mr. Dr is
married with children, he finally told him the truth about the
operation he had, and told him in no uncertain terms that he is
indeed sterile. Dr. Afshin also told him that per the conversation
he had with Mr. Dr’s father, he was to tell Mr. Dr the truth about
being sterile when he was ready to choose a wife. However his
father passed away unexpectedly at a young age unable to tell
him the truth. Just to be certain, Mr. Dr did a paternity test for
both children, and discovered that not only that he is not their
biological father; he also learned that they each have different
fathers. Betrayed and heartbroken, he divorced his wife, but
maintained his fatherhood to the girls. After all he had raised
them for over 9 years, and could not divorce them, even though
he was not their true father. After all it was not the children’s fault
to suffer the consequence of their mother’s actions. Soon after
the divorce, his ex-wife moved to France, but he maintained his
connection with daughters through letters and occasional phone
calls.
In Iran, in early 1970’s, it was highly unusual for a woman with
2 small children to get married again. Divorced single moms were
known to be “second hand” or another man’s reject or left over.
Women lived in a Hippocratic society, as there was a stigma
attached to a woman who was divorced, there was not one
attached to a man. To make matters more complicated, it was
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even more shocking when such a socially prominent man such as
my stepfather, was planning to get married to a woman who has
already been married and has two children. They were faced with
much disapproval and social objection but they were in love and
nothing else mattered. He was the gentlest, most kindhearted,
selfless and loving human being I have ever known and he
became the best father figure a girl could ever have. However,
Neda didn’t feel the same. She remained loyal to our biological
father, Javid, and refused to replace him with any other man.
This was true even though Javid never chose to stick around, and
did not contribute much to our care, education or anything else.
Since Mr. Dr was not able to have any children of his own, having
2 step children was a welcomed and pleasant situation for him.
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Abandoned Years
After my parents were divorced and my mother remarried,
things changed drastically. After getting married, Mr. Dr received
orders to move to another town called Sanandaj, which is located
in the North East of Iran, bordering Iraq. My mom found herself in
a bad situation. She felt she had to establish and nurture the new
marriage. With that task she left Tehran, and left us in the care of
our father who had assumed custody of us. After they left, my
father left town and took an assignment which required him to
travel and build schools, homes, mosques, and other buildings.
This was basically what my father wanted, to be free, and work
out of Tehran. In order to do that he had to find someone to help
take care of us, while he followed his dreams. Sharifeh was a
middle aged woman was hired to take care of Neda and I while
my father stayed out of town for long periods of time. She came
from a remote village, after divorcing her abusive husband. She
had a daughter named Sayareh who was 9 years old when she
came to live with us. She was a very delightful, happy, and
energetic girl, and I was so happy to find an instant best friend
who lived with us. Sharifeh first child was a daughter and
although Sayareh’s father was not very happy about that but told
her that he is willing to forgive her only once. Sayareh’s father,
who was a typical uneducated farmer, ordered Sharifeh she must
deliver a son for him or else he will be left with no choice but to let
it starve to death. When Sharifeh delivered a baby girl, she was