Leaving Iran Our Lives: Diary, Memoir, and Letters
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LEAVING IRAN Our Lives: Diary, Memoir, anD Letters Social history contests the construction of the past as the story of elites — a grand narrative dedicated to the actions of those in power. Our Lives seeks instead to make available voices from the past that might otherwise remain unheard. By foregrounding the experience of ordinary individuals, the series aims to demonstrate that history is ultimately the story of our lives, lives constituted in part by our response to the issues and events of the era into which we are born. Many of the voices in the series thus speak in the context of political and social events of the sort about which histor- ians have traditionally written. What they have to say fills in the details, creating a richly varied portrait that celebrates the concrete, allowing broader historical settings to emerge between the lines. The series invites materials that are engagingly written and that contribute in some way to our understanding of the relationship between the individual and the collective. SERIES TITLes A Very Capable Life: The Autobiography of Zarah Petri John Leigh Walters Letters from the Lost: A Memoir of Discovery Helen Waldstein Wilkes A Woman of Valour: The Biography of Marie-Louise Bouchard Labelle Claire Trépanier Man Proposes, God Disposes: Recollections of a French Pioneer Pierre Maturié, translated by Vivien Bosley Xwelíqwiya: The Life of a Stó:lō Matriarch Rena Point Bolton and Richard Daly Mission Life in Cree-Ojibwe Country: Memories of a Mother and Son Elizabeth Bingham Young and E. Ryerson Young, edited and with intro- ductions by Jennifer S.H. Brown Rocks in the Water, Rocks in the Sun Vilmond Joegodson Déralciné and Paul Jackson The Teacher and the Superintendent: Native Schooling in the Alaskan Interior, 1904–1918 Compiled and annotated by George E. Boulter II and Barbara Grigor-Taylor Leaving Iran: Between Migration and Exile Farideh Goldin LEAVI NG BETWEEN MIGRATION and EXILE I RAN FARIDEH GOLDIN Copyright © 2015 Farideh Goldin Published by AU Press, Athabasca University 1200, 10011 — 109 Street, Edmonton, aB t5J 3s8 doi: 10.15215/aupress/9781771991377.01 ISBn 978-1-77199-137-7 (pbk.) 978-1-77199-138-4 (pdf) 978-1-77199-137-1 (epub) Cover and interior design by Natalie Olsen, kisscutdesign.com Printed and bound in Canada by Friesens Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Goldin, Farideh, 1953–, author Leaving Iran : between migration and exile / Farideh Goldin. 1. Goldin, Farideh, 1953–. 2. Goldin, Farideh, 1953– — Family. 3. Jews, Iranian — United States — Biography. 4. Iranian American women — Biography. 5. Iranians — United States — Biography. 6. Refugees — United States — Biography. I. Title. II. Series: Our lives (Edmonton, Alta.) Ds135.i653G654 2015 305.891'55073092 C2015-906546-1 C2015-906547-X Assistance provided by the Government of Alberta, Alberta Media Fund. This publication is licensed under a Creative Commons licence, Attribu- tion–Noncommercial–No Derivative Works 4.0 International: see www. creativecommons.org. The text may be reproduced for non-commercial purposes, provided that credit is given to the original author. To obtain permission for uses beyond those outlined in the Creative Com- mons licence, please contact AU Press, Athabasca University, at aupress@ athabascau.ca. For Norman, who always believed in me. For Lena, Yael, and Rachel CONTENTS Prefatory Note and Acknowledgements ix Preface 1 01 1975, Portsmouth, Virginia 27 17 1987, Portsmouth 223 02 February 1979, Israel, 18 Baba: 1987, Shiraz 227 Kiriat Sharet 62 19 1987, Portsmouth 229 03 Baba: September 1980, 20 1989, Nags Head 233 Tel Aviv 101 21 1991, Portsmouth 239 04 October 1980, New Orleans 126 22 Baba: 1992, Shiraz 242 05 Baba: 1981, Tehran 133 23 1992, Norfolk 251 06 1982–83, Chesapeake 141 24 Baba: 1992, Shiraz 253 07 Baba: 1983, Shiraz 152 25 1966, Shiraz 258 08 1983–84, Chesapeake 174 26 Baba: 1992, Shiraz 262 09 Baba: 1983–84, Shiraz 178 27 1993, Norfolk 265 10 1984, Chesapeake 182 28 Baba: 1994, Tel Aviv 269 11 Baba: 1984, Tehran 186 29 1994, Baltimore 270 12 1984, Chesapeake 190 30 Baba: 2003, Holon 274 13 Baba: 1984, Rome 197 31 2002–03, Norfolk 276 14 December 1984, Norfolk 209 32 2005, Tel Aviv 279 15 Baba: 1985–86, Tel Aviv 219 33 2006, Norfolk 286 16 Baba: 1987, Philadelphia 221 34 Baba: December 2006, Holon 290 PREFATORY NOTE and AcKNOWLEDGMENTS This book is a work of creative non-fiction. In writing it, I have drawn from the memoir of my father, Esghel Dayanim. Portions of his memoir have been translated from Persian, shaped, and integrated into this narrative. I would like to thank my family, friends, mentors, and editors who have guided me with their wisdom and encouraging words as I wrote this book: Alisa Dayanim, Farzad Dayanim, Freydoun Dayanim, Neli Dayanim, Rouhi Dayanim, Anita Clair Fellman, Nahid Gerstein, Megan Hall, Pamela Holway, Connor Houlihan, Carol Laibstain, Manijeh Mannani, Lesléa Newman, Princess Perry, Carolyn Rhodes, Annabel Sacks, Hal Sacks, Joyce Winslet, and Karyn Wisselink. PREFACE December 23, 2006 Norfolk, Virginia The distant, muffled sounds of bumping coal containers at Lambert’s Point by the Elizabeth River, the freight trains roll- ing on their tracks on Granby Street, conjure memories of a happy childhood for my husband Norman, fun times with his father, Milton. I imagine Norman at age twelve in his father’s light-green Dodge Dart waiting at a train crossing, its bells ringing. “Son, what do the initials NS stand for?” Putting his head outside the car window to feel the wind off the cars, screaming, “Wooo . woo-wooooo,” Norman plays along: “Norfolk-Southern.” The longer the string of initials, the more fun the game. I, too, have learned to enjoy these familiar reverberations during the twenty-some years we have lived close to downtown Norfolk. They don’t take me back in time to my hometown of Shiraz, a valley in southern Iran, where there were no rivers or railroad tracks, no coal mines or coal dust. Some nights, when these muted whooshing, clanging, thumping noises sing a lul- laby to Norman, I keep awake, vigilant. In my mind’s eye I see the dark stains on the windowsills and imagine the invisible coal particles coating our lungs black. A foghorn wakes me up at 4:00 a.m. just before the phone rings, or maybe I wake up from the phone call and then hear 1 the ship announce itself. Such early phone calls often beckon Norman, a physician, to the emergency room, but he is not on call. Maybe it is my father, who has the habit of calling in the early hours. He ignored the nine-hour time difference when he lived in Iran and Norman and I were in Stamford, Connecticut, and later the seven-hour time difference when he sought refuge in Israel and Norman and I had moved to New Orleans — but Baba has not called in a very long time. I grab the phone. The flat voice of Niloufar, my Israeli sister, buzzes through the receiver from across the Atlantic. She rarely makes these expensive phone calls to the United States. “Allo, Farideh. Baba is in the hospital. Maybe one of you can come to Israel.” She pauses. Then in a subdued voice she adds, “I can’t manage it all by myself anymore.” ≈ My sister is a child of the Iranian Revolution; she was a refu- gee in Israel at age four. My family escaped Iran on one of the last El Al planes that evacuated Iranian Jews from Mehrabad airport in Tehran to Ben Gurion airport in Tel Aviv on Febru- ary 4, 1979. Niloufar is my only sibling still living in Israel with our parents. I left Iran for the United States on July 4, 1975, four years prior to the Islamic Revolution. My mother, six months preg- nant with Niloufar, said goodbye to me with the longing eyes of an entrapped woman, having never had the opportunity to escape a fate planned for her by others. Maman was given away in marriage at age thirteen to a man neither she nor her parents knew and sent on a bus over the mountains to my father’s hometown, Shiraz, more than a day’s drive from her home in Hamedan in northwestern Iran. 2 I am the oldest of five siblings; Niloufar, the youngest, is twenty-two years my junior. I was finishing my senior year at Old Dominion University in 1975 and had already met Norman, my future husband, on a blind date, when Niloufar was born on September 16, 1975. We have never been together longer than a month, yet I am the one she calls. ≈ the niGht BefOre, Norman and I had had a Shabbat dinner of brisket, latkes, and homemade applesauce with friends who lived just a few blocks away. We had had a few drinks to celebrate the seventh night of Hanukah, the festival of lights that had coincided with the regular festivities of Friday night, Shabbat. As we walked home late that night, I shivered in the cold December air. I am a desert woman. I hate cold. Norman felt exhilarated. His grandparents came to America to escape pogroms and anti-Semitism in Russia and Poland, places much colder than southern Iran. Norman’s face has traces of his paternal grandmother’s Russian features: defined cheekbones, fair skin, hazel eyes. We had hoped to sleep in late. “Allo, fariDeh? Are you still there?” Niloufar asks. Awake now, my head buzzes. “When did it happen?” Whis- pering so as not to awaken Norman, I try to figure out the tone of my sister’s voice.