‘I must go and see her once more, before it is all too late’

For months I have been hearing Maman’s voice asking when I would be visiting. It has been more than two years since I saw her last. I must go and see her once more, before it is all too late.

Twenty-one hours into the flight, we are over Iran’s soil. I am looking out the window to see that light-brown earth, thousands of years old. It holds tales of invasions, wars, betrayals, love and literature. An empire reduced to ashes, only small flames flickering here and there.

Credit: Simon Letch

As the plane lands at Tehran’s airport, my heartbeat drowns out the aircraft noise. We disembark like worn-out ants and queue up at passport control. There is not a soul around; the airport is like a ghost house. COVID. I remember the day I left, nearly three decades ago. As I leave the terminal, a cab driver offers me a ride and I jump in. He closes the door, then looks at me through the rear-view mirror and says, “Welcome home.” I burst into tears. I have forgotten what that means and am unsure of what to say.

We drive through an endless freeway, vast bodies of dry land stretching out on both sides. The only signs of life are stray dogs, thorny bushes and lone trees here and there. As we get closer to Tehran’s CBD, traffic builds up and we drive through busy streets filled with buildings, shops, people and cars. Nothing has changed: the rundown buses that emit plumes of smoke into the air, people jaywalking, motorcycles zigzagging through the traffic and cars tooting. It’s normal.

We arrive at the building where Maman lives, where I once lived. Home, I guess. At the door of the apartment, I take a photo; I might not knock on this door ever again. My niece opens it and gives me a warm hug. She takes me to Maman’s room; she is resting. She has aged so much. She is so frail. She struggles to sit up. I hold her in my arms and inhale her scent, that soft, caring and loving scent that has given me life. I sob. “He is crying,” she whispers to my niece, while caressing my back.

I freshen up and we gather in the dining room; my sister has prepared my favourite dish. She brings Maman to the table and we all sit. Maman is so tiny now, hunched over and her fingers crooked. I look at her hands, these hands that wrote poems, books, essays, and marked thousands of student assignments. I look at her, her eyes cloudy and distant. She is here, but she is absent.

“Maman, my book is coming out,” I say to her. She looks at me, a pale smile appearing on her face, then grabs her spoon and starts eating without saying a word. My heart sinks; she doesn’t remember that I’ve been writing a book, that she has always been the one to cheer me on, telling me to never give up. Baba’s vacant seat stares at me cruelly. He was alive when I visited last.

“Congratulations!” my niece cheers, then asks, “What is your book about?”

“It’s about oppression, dispossession and loss of culture and land,” I explain. “It’s about experiencing the darkest of times, it’s about losing home to the enemy in disguise. It’s about strong women who hold ancient stories alive.”

“It’s about Iran, then,” my niece says, playing with her food.

“Oh, the risk of telling!” my sister gasps. Maman is staring at her plate.

“Risk?” my niece interjects.

“What if the regime gets their hands on it, and all the accusations that would follow? What then?” my sister whispers.

“Everyone needs to speak up. No more silence,” my niece replies.

Over the next few days, I walk around town. I go to the small corner shop where I used to buy chocolate with my pocket money. It still smells of olives and of the fresh sheep feta floating in big pits and hanging packets of spices. I walk to my primary school, where I formed my first friendships before we were all separated after the Islamic Revolution. At the age of seven, we were too young to understand the enormity of what was to come, but old enough to understand that things were never going to be the same again. Ever.

I call my childhood friend, the only one still living in Iran, with her husband. We arrange a time to meet up. She hasn’t changed; she’s still loud, full of life and brazen. Her scarf keeps slipping down and I freak out that we will all get arrested. “Don’t worry. I don’t care any more, no one does,” she says, dismissing my concern.

We go to a cafe nestled in the heart of a mountain in the northern part of Tehran. We sit outside on a platform covered with a red Persian carpet. My friend orders tea and waves the waiter away. “We are leaving Iran; we can no longer stay here,” she says. I nod and silence envelops us.

A few crows are circling in the pale-blue sky. They sound different in Tehran; there is a sadness to their tune. Maybe they know. One is sitting atop a bare tree. I pull out my camera and take a photo. He doesn’t move. I manage to get a shot, then he flies away. “Goodbye, bird,” I whisper.

I go back to the flat. “It is so quiet, the phone never rings,” I comment.

“Many have left Iran, and those who are still here have nothing left to say,” my sister says, as she pours water into a floral teapot and rearranges the kettle.

“We are going to take you to the Caspian Sea in two days,” my niece says with excitement, as she bursts into the kitchen.

We pile into the car and drive through the Alborz Mountains towards the Caspian Sea. It is a winding road and I remember every single turn. Baba used to drive us along this road every summer. There is one big rock that looks like a potato; it marks the halfway point.

A rest station in the Alborz Mountains.Credit: Pirooz Jafari

I open the window to breathe in the fresh mountain air. I look at the rocks and memorise their shapes, their sharp edges, their strength and their dark charcoal colour. Ancient Persians believed that the Alborz Mountains have roots that go to the centre of the earth. We pull over so I can touch the boulders. The road is covered in ice, but I manage to get close. “I believe you,” I whisper to the ancestors. I feel the depth of the rocks connecting me to the centre of the earth. I take a stone and put it in my bag.

As we descend the mountains, I see glimpses of the sea and cheer the same way I used to when I was little. When we arrive at the water’s edge, I take off my shoes and walk on the cold, damp beach. The sand is soft and dark brown, like sugar. I walk to the water and the sea embraces me; she remembers me. I collect a few seashells and pebbles and put them in my pack.

It is the last hour before I leave Tehran. “It went so quick,” my niece says.

“It did,” I say.

“When will you come again?” my nephew asks.

“I don’t know,” I respond. My sister is weeping.

The phone rings. “The driver is here,” announces the concierge.

I go to the bedroom to kiss Maman goodbye. My feet don’t co-operate. I’ll tell her everything; she’ll understand. She would have wanted me to tell the truth. Even if it carries the risk of being labelled a traitor. There is always a compromise.

Her eyes are closed. I lean over. “Maman, I am going.”

She opens her eyes and says, “Where are you going?”

“Back to Australia,” I respond.

“Ahhh,” she sighs and looks at me, confused.

I hold her gaze. We both know time is up. I kiss her soft hair, inhale her scent once more. “Till we meet again, Maman; another time,” I say as I pull away from her.

The plane takes off and I see the Alborz Mountains, the guardians of this ancient land. The phoenix is rising from the ashes. Till we meet again, Iran.

Pirooz Jafari’s first novel, Forty Nights (Ultimo Press; $33), was published in July.

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