"Bird of Passage"

1

1980

SWITZERLAND, an enchanting land. Heaven for tycoons. Hell for have nots. And a neutral country for the rest of the world. This country has become a temporary haven for me, Mitra. My name is derived from a mythical Persian woman. As legends have it, Mitra stepped into this world at the end of the coldest and longest night of the year, the winter solstice. She was that first ray of sun to illuminate the world. According to my mother, Maman Iran, my birth also happened when the first sunbeam lit the dark sky.

At age twenty-eight, I grew up to know well that I have an imperfect look, not as beautiful as Maman, or my only sibling, five years younger than me, Layla, who has milky skin and almond-shaped eyes. My typical hawk nose like my father, Baba Nima’s, with a dramatic arched shape and a protruding bridge is in opposition to their snob noses, small in perfect length and slightly upturned.

Maman always encouraged me to have a nose job. But I was too chicken to listen to her and go under the knife. Or it might be because of Baba Nima’s remark: “Dear Mitra, it doesn’t matter how we look outside, it matters how we look inside.”

I was proud of my linage reaching far back to Ormazd and Amaya who lived six hundred years before the birth of Christ. My ancestors refused to immigrate from Persia to India at the time of Zoroastrians’ persecution in the seventh century. Instead, they abided by the rule of the land and converted to Islam when conquered by the Arabs in order to prevent bloodshed.

This afternoon, I arrived in this extravagant land in search of a new visa. Otherwise, the thoughts of coming to this lavish realm never would’ve entered my mind. I was alone, unlike other well-to-do Persians leaving Iran with their immediate families. From my hotel room window at the Central Plaza Hotel in the heart of Zurich, the outside scenery soothed me immensely. The red clouds were announcing the departure of the sun. Everything appeared quiet and calm despite some dark patches of clouds on the far horizon. I refused to consider my obscure future, regardless of my clenched hands and painful jaws.

It used to be we grabbed our passports and set out throughout Europe, Asia, and Africa. And if we were super-duper-rich, or connected to the royal family, even getting the American visa would be as easy as drinking a glass of water. However, not anymore. All this because some overzealous Iranian students took over the American embassy in Tehran and held a few Americans hostage in November 1979. Ever since, not only my life went upside down, but the whole world turned against my nation. As if the sky fell onto our heads.

Breaking away from the dictatorship regime of Khomeini made me smile. He brought chaos and instability to our lives by forcing us to follow Sharia’s law which some Iranians, including my family, had not known. We believed it was beneath the true Islam, humanity, and Mohammad’s instructions.

I breathed easier in this Western country, even though this was not my homeland. Only one month ago, my father, Baba Nima announced, “Mitra! Don’t be too hopeful in getting your exit visa out of Iran.”

“Why not?” I asked, quite surprised.

“Now, the clergies are in charge, and no one travels anywhere, especially out of Iran. To see a single, young woman with so many stamps in her passport from Europe to America, makes them suspicious of her motive.”

His comments baffled me. “Is it against the law too for a woman to travel to Switzerland as a tourist?”

“Thank God!” Maman Iran chimed in. “If you were married, then you must get your husband’s permission too.”

I looked into her sad eyes. “I’m so blessed. I still have my freedom without submitting to any man.” I paused. “Remember the time when I called you from America asking for your thoughts on marrying a Persian man?”

“Ali!” Maman’s face lit up.

Baba scratched his head. “No! What was that all about?”

To refresh their memories, I said, “I met him while I was doing my research at the Library of Congress. I’d thought he was a Moslem because of his name.”

“Ah, yes, and you called,” my father jogged his memory, “to tell us he converted to Christianity, even though his family was Moslem.”

“In Islam,” Maman Iran said, “a Moslem woman cannot marry a non-Moslem unless he converts, but…”

I interrupted her. “a Moslem man is allowed to marry a non-Moslem woman…” “Dear, this is another false rule brought into Islam,” Baba asserted. “In reality, one of Mohammad’s daughters married a non-Moslem. Still, he welcomed them to his home. Our Prophet never encouraged, or forced them to accept his faith, Islam.”

“Then, would you approve of my marriage to a non-Moslem?” I proffered.

“Of course, as long as you love the person,” Baba nodded. “There is one God. And all the religious roads lead to Him. It doesn’t matter which road we take. Every prophet in different times came to unite us to follow his path of love and peace.” Baba paused. “When we are united, then we’re stronger as a society.”

“Baba, is this the reason you called your newspaper, Defa-e-moshtarek?

“Yes. United, We Stand,” his delightful smile soon vanished under the cloud of sorrow when he continued, “a dictatorship regime, like ours, only interested in to disunite the people.”

I looked into his sharp eyes. “And it doesn’t matter who takes over the country.”

He nodded, “Exactly!”

“Nima,” Maman jumped in, “stop diverting from the subject.” She turned to me. “Then what happened?”

“As I was saying,” Baba turned a deaf ear to her, glanced at me, and said, “every prophet’s purpose is to unite us in the road of spirituality.”

“Father,” I reminded him, “you know this isn’t the case in today’s world.”

He nodded. “This is the reason we are called the ‘Lost Generation’ because of our extreme attraction to the materialistic world.” He smiled triumphantly.

“But, dear Mitra,” Maman uttered, “you never told us what went wrong. Ali was studying at Georgetown University, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. The problem was,” I winced, “I was finishing my degree within six months, but he had at least four more years to go. He was in DC, and I was in LA. He wanted me to marry him under one condition.”

Baba frowned. “A condition for marriage is never a good sign, anyway,”

Maman Iran moved closer to me to hear better. “What was that?”

“A crazy proposal” I replied. “After finishing my degree, I was supposed to return to Iran, and wait for his arrival until he’d come and marry me.”

Maman had a hard time believing her ears. “Four years…didn’t he know when it comes to marriage, it must be now or never?”

The three of us burst out laughing.

***

Here in Zurich, I admired my father. Like Ormazd, he also gave me the autonomy to choose my future husband. As far as I know, during ancient Persia, girls were allowed to choose their husbands, and decide what to do for their professions. They could even serve in the military. I was joyful that my father still adheres to those ancient rules.

The events of my past occupied my mind. To cheer myself up, I thought of my future. Tomorrow, this time, I would have the seal of the new American Visa in my passport, and soon I’d be flying over there. Being alone in a foreign land made it immensely difficult to not contemplate the reason I decided to escape my beloved home country. Or perhaps it was the force of Fate.

One early evening a few months ago, when I was a professor at the University of Tehran, I had finished grading the last paper and was getting ready to leave. All of a sudden, my office door banged open, startling me. I looked up. One of my students, Mohsen, rushed in. His face with a thick beard and mustache, an Islamic look for men in contrast to their shaven faces during the Shah’s regime, alarmed me. In addition, his red-hot eyes were horrifying. He placed his hands on my desk and leaned forward threateningly. His cigarette breath was repulsive. “Professor,” he snarled, “you’ve become Westernized! After studying in America, you’ve forgotten how to be a Moslem woman.”

To counter his aggression, I calmed myself by wiping my face that was getting wet from his spit of yelling. Then, I said in a friendly voice, “Have a seat, Mohsen. What do you mean?”

He ignored my words and hollered, “We got rid of the corrupt Shah and welcomed the Light of Allah, Khomeini, to have an Islamic regime. Now, you must cover your head, and remove your nail polish too. I’ll bet you don’t pray either, Mrs. Tehrani, do you?”

How come the male professors are Dr. so and so, whether any one of them holds a doctorate degree, but female ones regardless, they are Mrs…?

I was determined not to let him take me off guard. I said in a confident voice, “How do you know I was educated in America?”

“Your speech and manner of dressing show you studied in America,” he spat.

He was right. My English accent did not sound like the Iranian professors who studied in England. Also, I had on a dark blue suit and skirt out of denim with a cotton light blue blouse underneath, no baggy gray or black outfit like most of the other female professors.

I remained quiet. Mohsen took my silence as an insult and banged his fists on the desk while screaming, “America brainwashes our women! Trains them to act like theirs. To be carefree, and not to mind their men!”

“Do you mean to have a mind of their own?” I countered.

“Why aren’t you wearing a hijab?” He blasted at me as if he was ordering his maid.

In a sturdy voice, I exclaimed, “Who says I have to cover my head?”

“Aren’t you a Moslem?” he challenged.

“Yes…”

He didn’t let me finish and rushed shouting. “Prophet Mohammad, God Bless his soul, instructs women to cover up!”

Even though I was somewhat intimidated by this look-alike gorilla before me, the only way out was to engage him even deeper into our dialogue. “Where did you read that our Prophet says that?”

Mohsen in a quick move dried his sweat that was about to drip on my desk from his forehead. “In the Koran!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he rumbled. “if you take the time and read our holy book, you’d see.”

“If you bring me the Koran and show me where Mohammad commanded women to wear hijab, I’ll give you an ‘A’ in the course.”

He stood up straight and put his right hand in his pocket.

As if my heart would jump out at any moment, I feared the worst. He knew that he had an impossible task. I worried that he might attack me with a knife, or even a handgun. In those days, our heads were filled with the gossip that most men carried some kind of deadly weapon.

During the Shah’s regime, only civilian men were allowed to buy hunting rifles after they would clear the stiff government background check. However, there was no permit issued for a handgun to anyone, except to the military personnel. But not now.

My heart thumping increased when Mohsen pulled out a switchblade. His thumb caressed the release button and gave me a feeling that my end was near. I somehow mustered all my strengths and found the courage to look him directly in the eyes without flinching. This caused him to think better of it, and to my disguised relief, he put the knife back into his pocket.

Within, I was shaking like a willow tree caught in a storm. Outward, I kept my cool appearance, and went on, “Mohsen, the pillar of Islam is based on equality. As our prophet proclaims, ‘men and women all are created by God, and are equal in His eye.’”

That caught him off guard and he said. “Professor, how do you know?”

“Go and study Islam! Then you too will know. Our leaders and politicians have made our Prophet’s instructions murky for their own benefits.”

He gave this some thought, then abruptly turned and left my office.

That same evening, on my way home, I was pleased that I doused a man’s fury. More than an hour late, I got off the bus. My parents were standing at the bus stop with anxious faces. Maman was covered from head to toe in her black chador.

I must get used to seeing her in our traditional cover. I don’t think I’ll ever follow this new rule, regardless of who orders me.

They rushed over and hugged me. On the way home, I explained the cause of my delay. Maman raised her head and hands to the sky. “Dear Mitra, thank Allah!” Her voice was clearly

quivering. “He didn’t attack you with or without his knife.”

The numbness in my body became clear to me. “Yes, thankfully his better judgment prevented him. Or maybe he decided not to harm a woman, a weak creature.”

“Dear Mitra,” Baba whispered, “why don’t you think about going back to America? I’m afraid you won’t be safe here.”

Wow! I thought, amazed. To keep me safe, Baba agrees to send me to an unknown land indefinitely, rather than staying home.

***

The night before my big day in Zurich, I went to bed early with high hopes. Soon I would fly to my final destination, the United States of America, the beacon of freedom in the world.