Journey Into Darkness and Despair : A Nightmare Awaits a Family of Three Returning to Iran

My 4-year-old daughter dozed in her seat next to the window of a British Airways jetliner, her red-brown curls encircling her face, tumbling haphazardly below her shoulders. They had never been cut.

It was Aug. 3, 1984.

My darling child was exhausted from our extended journey. We had left Detroit on Wednesday morning, and as we neared the end of this final leg of the trip, the sun was already rising on Friday.

‘You Better Get Ready’

My husband, Moody, glanced up from the pages of the book that rested upon his paunch. He pushed his glasses up to his balding forehead. “You better get ready,” he said.

I unbuckled my seat belt, grabbed my purse and made my way down the narrow aisle toward the lavatory in the rear of the airplane.

This is a mistake, I said to myself. If only I could get off this plane right now. I locked myself in the restroom and glanced into the mirror to see a woman on the ragged edge of panic.

I freshened my makeup, trying to look my best, trying to keep my mind busy. I did not want to be here, but I was, so now I had to make the best of it. Perhaps these two weeks would pass quickly. Back home in Detroit, Mahtob would start kindergarten classes at a Montessori school in the suburbs. Moody would immerse himself in his work. We would begin work on our dream house.

Just get through these two weeks, I told myself. I hunted through my purse for the pair of heavy black panty hose Moody had instructed me to buy. I pulled them on and smoothed the skirt of my conservative dark green suit over them.

Once more I glanced at my reflection, dismissing the thought of running a brush through my brown hair. Why bother? I asked myself. I donned the heavy green scarf Moody said I must wear whenever we were outdoors. Knotted under my chin, it made me look like an old peasant woman.

What was an American woman doing flying into a country that had the most openly hostile attitude toward Americans of any nation in the world? Why was I bringing my daughter to a land that was embroiled in a bitter war with Iraq?

Try as I might, I could not bury the dark fear that had haunted me ever since Moody’s nephew, Mammal Ghodsi, had proposed this trip. A two-week vacation anywhere would be endurable if you could look forward to returning to comfortable normalcy. But I was obsessed with a notion that my friends assured me was irrational--that once Moody brought Mahtob and me to Iran, he would try to keep us there forever.

Oppressive Heat

We stepped off the airplane into the overwhelming, oppressive summer heat of Tehran--heat that seemed to physically press down upon us as we walked across a stretch of Tarmac from the plane to a bus waiting to transport us to the terminal. And it was only 7 o’clock in the morning.

Mahtob clung to my hand firmly, her big brown eyes taking in this alien world. As we entered the airport terminal, stepping into a large reception room, we were struck quickly by another disagreeable sensation--the overpowering stench of body odor, exacerbated by the heat. I hoped that we could get out of there soon, but the room was jammed with passengers arriving from several flights, and everyone pushed and shoved toward a single passport control desk, the only exit from the room.

Some four hours after our plane had landed, we stepped outside. Immediately Moody was engulfed in a mob of robed, veiled humanity that clawed at his business suit and wailed in ecstasy. More than 100 of his relatives crowded around, screaming, crying, pumping his hand, embracing him and kissing him, kissing me, kissing Mahtob. Everyone seemed to have flowers to thrust at Mahtob and me. Our arms were soon full.

Why am I wearing this stupid scarf? I wondered. My hair was matted to my scalp.

Tears of Joy

Moody wept tears of joy as his sister, Ameh Bozorg, clung to him. She was cloaked in the omnipresent heavy black chador, but I recognized her from photographs anyway.

Moody’s parents, both of them physicians, had died when he was only 6, and his sister had raised him as her own son. Now Moody introduced us and she poured out her affection on me, hugging me tightly, smothering me with kisses, chattering all the while in Farsi. Moody was her little boy once again.

As the days passed, Ameh Bozorg grew less cordial. She complained to Moody about our wasteful American habit of showering every day. In preparation for our visit she had gone to the hamoom, the public bath--for the ritual that takes a full day to complete. She had not bathed since that time, and obviously did not intend to do so in the foreseeable future. She and the rest of her clan dressed in the same clothes day after day, despite the drenching heat.

“You cannot take showers every day,” she said.

“We have to take showers every day,” Moody replied,

“No,” she said. “You wash all of the cells off of your skin and you will get a cold in your stomach and be sick.”

The argument ended in a draw. We continued to shower daily; Ameh Bozorg and her family continued to stink.

Despite insisting upon his own cleanliness, Moody, incredibly, still did not seem to notice the filth all around him until I forced his attention.

“There are bugs in the rice,” I complained.

“It is not true,” he said. “You have just made up your mind not to like it here.”

At dinner that night I surreptitiously spooned through the rice, gathering several black bugs in one helping, which I piled onto Moody’s plate. It is not polite to leave a morsel of food on your plate so, unwilling to offend, Moody ate the bugs. He got my point.

Put on Display

As the days passed, Moody increasingly seemed to forget that Mahtob and I existed. At first he had translated every conversation, every idle comment. Now he no longer bothered. Mahtob and I were put on display for the guests and then had to sit for hours, trying to appear pleasant, even though we could understand nothing. Several days passed during which Mahtob and I spoke only to each other.

Together we awaited--we lived for--the moment when we could return home to America.

Finally the last full day of our visit arrived. Moody’s nephew, Majid, insisted that we spend the morning at the Park Mellatt.

This was fine. Majid was the one really likable member of Ameh Bozorg’s household, the only one with a spark of life in his eyes.

Counting the Hours

The outing at Park Mellatt was only for the four of us--Majid, Moody, Mahtob and me. It was the most enjoyable activity I could imagine for this final day of what had seemed like an endless two weeks. Mahtob and I were now counting the hours to our departure.

In the park I was suddenly aware of Moody’s hand clasping mine, a minor violation of Shiite custom. He was pensive, sad.

“Something happened before we left home,” he said. “You do not know about it.”

“What?”

“I got fired from my job.”

I pulled my hand away from him, suspecting a trick, sensing danger, feeling the return of my fears. “Why?” I asked.

“The clinic wanted to hire someone to work in my place for a lot less money.”

“You’re lying,” I said with venom. “It’s not true.”

“Yes. It is true.”

Sitting in the park, wiping tears from my eyes, I tried to encourage him.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “You can get another job, and I will go back to work.”

Moody was inconsolable.

Late in the afternoon Mahtob and I began an exciting venture: packing! The one thing we wanted more than anything in the world.

Off in the distance the telephone rang, but I was only vaguely aware of the sound. I wanted to finish packing.

Moody was called to the phone, and I followed him to the kitchen. The caller was Majid, who had gone to confirm our flight reservations. The two men chatted for a few minutes in Farsi before Moody said in English, “Well, you better talk to Betty.”

As I took the telephone receiver from my husband’s hand, I felt a shiver of apprehension. Suddenly everything seemed to fit together in a dreadful mosaic. There was Moody’s overwhelming joy at reuniting with his family and his obvious affection for the Islamic revolution.

Clandestine Conversations

I thought about his devil-may-care-attitude toward spending our money. What about the furniture we bought? Then I remembered that Majid still had not made arrangements to ship it to America. Was it an accident that Majid disappeared with Mahtob in the park this morning so that Moody and I could talk alone?

I thought back to all of the clandestine conversations in Farsi between Moody and Mammal when Mammal was living with us in Michigan. I had suspected then that they were conspiring against me.

Now I knew that something was terribly wrong, even before I heard Majid say to me on the telephone, “You are not going to be able to leave tomorrow.”

Trying to keep the panic out of my voice, I asked, “What do you mean, we won’t be able to leave tomorrow?”

“You have to take your passports to the airport three days ahead of time to have them approved so that you can get out of the country. You did not turn in your passports in time.”

“I didn’t know that. That’s not my responsibility.”

“Well, you cannot go tomorrow.”

There was a trace of condescension in Majid’s voice, as if to say, you women--especially you Western women--will never understand how the world really works. But there was something else, too, a cold precision to his words that sounded almost rehearsed. I did not like Majid anymore.

I screamed into the phone. “When is the first flight out of here that we can take?”

“I do not know. I will have to check on it.”

Devoid of Energy

When I hung up the phone, I felt as if all the blood had drained form my body. I was devoid of energy. I sensed that this went far beyond a bureaucratic problem with our passports.

I dragged Moody back into the bedroom.

“What is going on?” I demanded.

“Nothing, nothing. We will go on the next available flight.”

“Why didn’t you take care of the passports?”

“It was a mistake. Nobody thought about it.”

I was close to panic now. I did not want to lose my composure, but I felt my body begin to shake. My voice rose in pitch and intensity, and I could not stop it from quivering.

“I don’t believe you,” I shouted. “You are lying to me. Get the passports. Get your things together. We are going to the airport. We’ll tell them we didn’t know about the three-day requirement and maybe they will let us get on the plane. If they don’t, we are going to stay there until we can get on a plane.”

Moody was silent for a moment. Then he sighed deeply.

Moody knew that he could delay no longer and I, before he said it, knew what he had to tell me.

‘We Are Staying Here’

He sat down on the bed next to me and attempted to slip his arm around my waist, but I pulled away. He spoke calmly and firmly, a growing sense of power in his voice.

“I really do not know how to tell you this,” he said. “We are not going home. We are staying here.”

Even though I had expected the outcome of this conversation for several minutes, I could not contain my rage when I finally heard the words.

I jumped from the bed. “Liar! Liar! Liar!” I screamed. “How can you do this to me? You knew the only reason I came here. You have to let me go home!”

Indeed, Moody knew, but he apparently did not care.

With Mahtob watching, unable to comprehend the meaning of this dark change in her father’s demeanor, Moody growled, “I do not have to let you go home. You have to do whatever I say, and you are staying here .”

He pushed my shoulders, slamming me onto the bed. His screams took on a tone of insolence, almost laughter, as though he were the gloating victor in an extended, undeclared war. “You are here for the rest of your life. Do you understand? You are not leaving Iran. You are here until you die.”