Safa

I have always loved words.  The way some people love shiny new objects.  As soon as I heard a new word, a word that captured my imagination, my energy, my hundreds of unnamed inner thoughts and feelings, I would latch on to it with fearceness, joy and curiosity.  I have also always been intrigued by how regular old words can be used in an unexpected context and evoke bursts of unexpected feelings in the listener, such as laughter, anticipation or tears.  I would search for those words coming out of the mouths of everyone around me, and mentally catalog them like a dutiful librarian, and await the opportunity to say the words with my own mouth out loud to an audience, or better yet use it in an essay where the teacher could grade it, get a kick out of it, or read it to the whole class.     

As a child I always loved the Persian word Safa.   For one thing the word sounds so simple, yet sophisticated and beautiful, and for another, each of my memories of hearing this word is stored in the vicinity of a memory of a joyful setting, a wonderful person, an unforgettable experience…    

I looked up Safa in my old beaten up Shorter Persian English Dictionary by S. Haim, some years ago, when by then I was less Persian and more American and now wanted to check the meaning of Farsi words in English, as so often I had tried to describe something in vain to my American friends with a perfect word at the tip of my tongue.  That dictionary had followed me to all my homes and all my bookcases.  It was a last gift I had received on the last day I was a non-hyphenated.  Simply a girl belonging fully and without any dispute to my large extended family, community and that specific piece of the earth I was born in, 32.4279° N, also known as Iran, pronounced EerOn. 

Since we never forget the most important goodbyes in our lives, I remember every detail of that 2:45 AM Lufthansa flight out of Mehrabad airport.  The departure lounge was loud and hazy as expected, Persians as always making a huge deal of seeing off their travelers in tribal style.   Although that lounge had seen happier days,  goodbyes during those years were heavy and sad, tainted with the weight of finality and loss.  I doubt even one person had left that lounge in and around those years, with the excitement of being off on an adventure as airports are meant to be.   When you are escaping your home, no matter how relieved you may be to have found a plan B for your remaining  existence and how much hope you have for your future, you are still bearing a huge loss in the pit of your chest.  

At any rate, although my parents had said their goodbyes in the weeks and months that had come and gone faster than we had expected, and begged everyone who called in the last few days not to come to the airport for a send off so late at night, tens of close friends and relatives had shown up.  Almost everyone was forcing a brave face, and hiding their sadness behind small talk and the odd joke.   The mood was nauseating and I dealt with it by trying to focus on the fact that I was hours away from uninhibited access to the latest Nikes, George Michael and McDonalds, when I suddenly noticed my cousin Majid, a quiet young man in his early twenties , an inspired designer, craftsman and artist focusing and studying 18th century French art and furniture, arrive and join our group.   

I felt startled by his arrival.  He had not arrived with the rest of his family earlier in the evening, which I thought had meant that he was, as he had always said, bad at saying goodbyes, but then for some reason he had changed his mind and caught us in the nick of time.  I recalled at that moment, coming to this very airport a few years earlier to welcome Majid and his two sisters who had unexpectedly and prematurely returned home to Iran from Manchester at the beginning of the Fall terms, after their parents were no longer able to pay their college tuition following the Iranian Revolution of 1979.  Spotting him now, trying to fade into the crowd of friends and relatives, reminded me of the heaviness of this place even on a day when we were welcoming back loved ones.  Even then, we had all put on our happiest faces.  Upon welcoming them, the adults had made the most reassuring promises about the unpredictable gifts of life, despite knowing how much these young people were losing out on by abandoning their studies, their friends, network and perhaps special someones, the cozy flat the three had shared and made their home and sent pictures and letters from over the past few years.   Then just like now, I looked at my mother’s face and she was holding back tears.

I recall thinking in that moment with the arrogance of a teenage brain, good riddance to this place, where people are always sad, whether they are coming or going.   The time in that departure lounge seemed unbearably and unnecessarily long to me, the vulnerability of being the object of everyone’s forced-back sadness. 

While I was lost in my own thoughts, Majid had made his way to me through a few layers of relatives.  He reached with his right hand to grab a brown bag from under his left arm, and gave me one of his kind warm smiles.  He handed me the brown bag.  His eyes behind his glasses were glistening and looking at him, someone I loved and adored my whole life, the reality of this goodbye was finally felt by my entire being.  As a painful lump snuck up into my throat and flood of tears blurred my vision and stung my eyes, I forgot all about my fear of the morality police watching our every darn move, making sure nothing improper or “unislamic” was taking place,  and I hugged Majid as tight as I could, calling him by the nickname I had for him since I had begun babbling, “Dadashy” Big Brother.  

If I had been impatient before, about leaving the departure lounge, I quickly became nostalgic for it and all our loved ones, the moment we headed towards the Passport Control line. 

You could sense the collective anxiety of all the travelers thick in the air in this corridor. The contrast of the loud hum of relatives in the room behind us, all talking at once over each other to their travelers in a show of bravery and well wishes, to the muted sound of dread and fear here as we all marched towards our fate. The blur of  “Go in good health”, “Go in the creator’s protection”, “Don’t forget to write”, “All will be well again and you will be back soon” to the contrast of silence that comes from everyone in a room holding their breaths in unison.

Leaving behind the warmth of the departure lounge for the complete solemn hush in this long echoing overly air conditioned corridor, towards the arms of thick bearded men in camouflage sporting semi-automatic rifles and looks of complete disgust in having to laid eyes on us, made everyone’s tear stained faces a little paler, their stance a little more uncertain. 

I knew with certainty at that moment that all the travelers were mentally reviewing their rehearsed responses, and giving themselves pep talks to come across neither suspect against their country, nore eager to leave it behind.    Yes, leaving this place was a thing of fables in those days.  We were among the lucky ones.  To get out, on a plane, with previous planning, so dignified we were.  To actually have a place to go to, that had already accepted us, was blessing beyond anything. Even in the case of some of the other travelers, the fact that they had a vague plan in place on how to rig a story upon arriving at a new land so they get to stay, still had hope and promise in it.

So many people had left Iran on foot, with a human smuggler they had only met that evening in a shady, dusty corner outside the city where the unnoticed met, after paying a middle guy a vast portion of their family’s rapidly devalued fortune, in dollars no less.   They had traveled partly hunched over in the tarped backs of old pick up trucks and partly on foot over the extremely mountainous border, out of Iran and into Turkey, and god knows where to next….  

We were the lucky ones indeed.  But we still had to clear the dreaded Passport Control by playing a few rounds of the psychological game of chicken.  You never knew what excuse they could find to confiscate your passport, to label your father a treasonous bastard, a thief, a Mofsedeh Felarz , a Khaen,  a traitor, a corrupter of the society,  an enemy of God,  or the dreaded TAGHOUTI, a devil worshiper, a devil that was disguised as the previous running Administration of the country. 

Years later I thought about how clever the new Regime and their cronies were to castigate us in Arabic words which we didn't understand their meanings readily... I am sure if people knew at the time they were being hung for being a devil worshiper, they wouldn't stop laughing, and that could have put a huge wrench in the plans of creating massive and pervasive fear.

As we marched forward, my mother silently passed me my baby sister to carry, as an excuse to give me one of her looks that meant "be alert now, remember what we talked about".  She had nothing to worry about, I had memorized the drill and was as ready as I was for my school’s final exams.  Look ahead.  Don’t stare at anyone.  Don’t smile but also don’t frown. Don’t volunteer information.   All questions about whether we were hiding any valuables, or if anyone had coached me on what to say should be answered with a confident No.  I should remember that my family had done nothing wrong, and thus should not feel or demonstrate fear.

Although I felt pretty sure of what we needed to do, there still  was this small worry nagging at me.  Throbbing on my earlobes and around my wrists and neck, hiding right under the big scarf covering all my hair, neck and shoulders, and below the buttoned cuffs of my knee length tunic.  

The Iranian Revolution of 1979 which overwhelmingly shifted the country’s economic and political powers from the educated and upper and middle class society, to the clergy and their uneducated and pious entourage, plumetated the entire value system of the economy.   The Rial completely lost its value against other currencies, pushing inflationary forces into an out of control decades long tailspin, and a de facto recession, if not depression,  across pretty much the entire society.  And if the Revolution wasn’t enough to ensure the complete ruin of the developing system of the country’s economy and infrastructure that had been painstakingly put in place before 1979, the devastation of the  Iran-Iraq war which started in the Fall of 1980, continuing for the most part of the decade, sealed the deal. 

Aside from the economic impact of war on a developing nation, all men and boys over the age of 18 were now being drafted so they can act as human mine detonators at the first line of the war zone.  

As an extra good measure, the new Regime made sure to undertake the bloodiest execution campaign on the gang of potential trouble makers: The "So Called Intellectuals", Taghoughties, Communists, Capitalists, Monarchists, the highest echelons of professionals, public servants, and leaders in industry, military, education and finance, that ran the country before the arrival of the Islamic Republic. Soon idealistic teenagers and college students with various nationalistic clubs and association affiliations were also jailed or killed.    You can imagine that as the inferno and the terror intensified, so did people’s desperation to seek refuge for their children and themselves.  Since buying powers had diminished, so did property values.  And so it was that the only valuable things worthy of fighting tooth and nail to hold on to, were gold, easily transportable precious stones and foreign currencies, namely Dollars and Sterling Pounds.  

In the days before our departure my mother made sure to take me and my baby sister for ear piercings and on the night of our trip, she took the time amidst the chaos to put a beautiful 24 carat gold and diamond Cartier knockoff choker necklace around my neck, its matching bracelet around my wrist, and carefully placing the earrings in my inflamed newly pierced earlobes.  My sister got diamond studs in her tiny ears, and a long 24 carat gold chain, triple looped through her pacifier and placed around the delicate skin of her neck, making her huge eyes even wider when she noticed that she had a shiny new object to keep her hands and teething gums busy with .  No instructions were given to me by my mother regarding these items, but then again no instruction was necessary.    

All this really happened.  All throughout the 1980’s.  And to hundreds of thousands people, who were the lucky ones.  When Madonna and Micheal Jackson were capturing our hearts with their music and disco was still a thing.  When Oprah started becoming a North American sensation.   When the Macintosh Computer and Nike shoes were the awesomest things a human could own, or a Levis 501 and a good fitting t-shirt were all any of us needed to be chic... Right about then, a nation of good people, who also loved all those very things and much much more, became victims of one of the biggest and most peculiar home invasions in the history of modern humanity.  

Anyways, it seemed like an eternity but we finally made it unscathed to the front of the Passport Control kiosk, AKA the Last Frontier, after miraculously surviving the awful body screening, where our family was divided into two groups, me, my sister and my mother, following the women in line ahead of us to a curtained kiosk for “Sisters”, and my father and 3 year old brother directed towards the uncurtained kiosk for “Brothers”.   

In Iranian families almost everyone has a specific character they are famous for, and my mom’s childhood nickname loosely translates to spicy-witty,Sit o Somaghi, as she was famous for her timely, cheeky repartee.   In the body screening kiosk, my mom and I had passed the baby back and forth, as we took turns having our bodies thoroughly inspected by the thick handed woman, cloaked head to toe in a black polyester Chador, pinned at her chin.  But just as the lady tried to reach for the baby, my mom’s voice echoed loudly through the kiosk, “No! No! Sister, do not touch the Baby with your hands,”  pointing at her hands and flashing her a charming smile.   Startled, the woman stepped back, but not before bitterly, or perhaps out of some level of kindness, cracking a joke to no one in particular  “Oh, Taghouti baby!  Pfft, her pacifier is hanging on a gold chain”, motioning us to leave the kiosk with her huge hands.

 

The Passport Control like all other evil genius creations of the new regime, was chaotic and nonsensical in every aspect, except for the systematic delivery of the maximum level of brain altering fear and reinforcing the message that no matter where you are, you are under the watchful eye of the Big Brother.  There were random numbers of officers at each kiosk.  At ours, there were two men, dressed in camouflage, each carrying a gun and sporting heavy amounts of unwashed hair on their heads and faces.  They avoided eye contact with my mother and I as a show of their piety, and only regarded my father by asking him random questions. One guy seemed to be trying to find out about my father’s professional work and reasons for leaving the country, making sure he wasn’t sneaking off the baitol mall, public assets, and the other guy’s mission was to see if he could tie my father to some network of unsavory trouble makers. 

My father had been the CEO of a large private building materials company that after the Revolution had become a Public company like many other large companies where the owners were either executed or exiled.  He was well loved at the company, and it pained him that out of an abundance of caution, he would not be able to formally resign and say his goodbyes to the employees before leaving.  For all intents and purposes we were taking a quick trip to visit my mother’s family abroad.  After twenty minutes of questioning and getting nowhere, the two sherlocks concluded that my father needed to be further examined in private in the Investigation room.

My father, smiling at us calmly, gestured for us to wait where we were standing.  The Investigation room, another roofless makeshift room they had hastily put together post Revolution, to create the airport of their evil dreams, had a frosted glass door, so even though you couldn’t make out exactly what was behind it, you could see outlines of the people and still feel electrified with anxiety.  My Dad was told to sit across the table from the Boss, with four other armed guys standing around the table, barely fitting, before one pushed the door shut with his leg.  Another forty five minutes of questioning and my dad triumphantly opened the door himself and stepped out with a big smile, followed closely by the two guys who had taken him inside.  Before he could get to us he gave us one of his signature winks of all is well. His heart couldn’t bare not reassuring one second later...seconds that day were as annoying and as precious as I have ever seen them to be. Seeing his face, I felt my whole body exhale for the first time that evening, still making sure that I looked as unsuspecting as one could look.     

Even after sitting in our seats on the plane, all the passengers were quiet. I looked around at as many of the faces as I could see. Every passenger looked ostensibly nervous about the fate of the next moments that kept dragging on, and everyone looked visibly heart broken. Women and girls still sat in full compulsory Hijab, on the German plane.   None of us had done anything incriminating, opposed anyone of consequence, had no specifically offensive affiliations, but we all were still in the grip of the fear that was sewn so deeply in our hearts by this Regime, the invisible hands of our fellow captors reaching in and pulling us back stiffly into our seats.

Once the Captain signaled cruising altitude, people started clapping. My mother’s face suddenly drenched in tears. Other women began taking off their scarves, some with a show of disgust and others more discreetly.  As much as I hated the imposed hijab, I was also so used to it that I felt uncomfortable, embarrassed and still scared to take my scarf off.  After some minutes, my father who was sitting in the row behind me pulled my scarf from behind, a prank kids often played at school.  It made my whole family and the family sitting across from us laugh.  The feelings were so mutual, we all knew how each one of us were feeling.  We were all one. We were all still able to laugh, on this day that we had left behind everything we knew and loved.

As the collective relief settled onto us, I remembered the brown bag that Majid had given me.  I grabbed it from my backpack under my seat, opened the bag, and looked inside it with the kind of love and sentimentality I had never felt when opening a gift before.  Inside there was a small hardcover titled Shorter Persian English Dictionary by S. Haim.  On the inside cover, in a familiar handwriting it read “always stay in love with words, and always stay yourself… Dadasheet”  Your Brother. 

Just then the Lufthansa cabin crew began wheeling in the refreshments and serving all sorts of goodies, that Iranians didn’t have access to after the Revolution. Lufthansa being one of the main carriers that had continued service to and from Iran after Mehrabad airport had resumed flights following the airport closures of the Revolution, must have deeply understood the type of agony these travellers had gone through to be on this plane.  They displayed the kindest, most cheerful, heartfelt hospitality I have seen on an international flight, ever.  

I recall my 13 year old self on that plane, with all the heavy, awful feelings I and everyone else had dragged along onto that flight.  There was so much fear and loss.  Sadness and worry.  But then, as we all became a little lighter with altitude, we could feel an undeniable presence of goodness, empathy and welcome from the German cabin crew. It was in the baskets of chocolates passed around the cabin, in their kind insistence that passengers take more when they just took one or none at all.  It was offering the elderly traveler sitting across from us hot tea in glass cups instead of paper cups, when she was too sad to eat or drink anything.  It was holding my baby sister when my mom’s tears wouldn’t stop flowing. It was eye contact and smiling faces that communicated human connection.  

Years later when I looked up the word Safa for a straightforward english translation, I was completely underwhelmed.  Safa, noun, pleasantness, purity, limpidity.  

But Safa is a beauty that people and places can possess, that gives one a genuine and overwhelming feeling of welcome and joy that can override all the other feelings.  Safa is what I strive for, what I look for always and run towards.