Mirror From Stone

By Kourosh Keshavarz

Having spent his early childhood in Sydney, Kourosh and his family return to Iran at the height of the Islamic Revolution in 1979. Their attempt to settle into family life is disrupted as the country changes government, sets in reforms and is plunged into a war with Iraq which eventually drives the family to attempt to return to Australia. Mirror From Stone is the memoir of Kourosh, as he adjusts to post revolution life in Iran before and during the war. It then follows him as he crosses the border into Pakistan, with people smugglers to re-unite with his family. It is the story of a family's struggle to adapt to a different culture, stay together and above all, find peace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kourosh Keshavarz
• Release date: Jul 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465729071

Kourosh Keshavarz

I was born in Iran in 1970 and spent the first 7 years of my life in Sydney while my father completed his PHD. We returned to Iran at the height of the Islamic Revolution in 1979 and was there till the war finished in 1988. Since then I have been living in Sydney and working in anything from Computers to Network Management to Project Management in Telecommunications. For the last five years or so I have been dabbling in video editing, photoshopping and 3d graphic development. I have also began writing in 2000 and have now published my first book “Mirror From Stone” which is available on Amazon.

Book preview

Mirror

From

Stone

by

Kourosh Keshavarz

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Published by:

Kourosh Keshavarz on Smashwords

www.kouroshkeshavarz.com

Mirror From Stone

Copyright © 2009 Kourosh Keshavarz

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you?re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgements

All the events in this book are based on true occurrences in my life. In many cases I have had to change the names of people and places in order to maintain their anonymity. I would however like to acknowledge them as they all played their part in getting me where I am today. For that I am eternally grateful.

Although writing a book is something an author carries out alone, there are so many people who contribute to it one way or another. I would like to first thank my wife Maria for her love and support in the many years it took to get this book to the state it is. She was my sounding board on almost every sentence and without her I wouldn’t have had the courage to see it through to completion.

I will have to thank my late Grandfather Aziz Rahbani for planting the seed some twenty years ago. I only wish he was here to see the impression his remarks left on me.

I would like to thank Graham Holland for getting me started by removing my excuses. I am also grateful to my family’s dear friend Jacquie Pryor for opening the right doors for me.

A special thanks to Holly Joffrion for creating the cover.

My mother needs a unique mention. She raised us all alone in the midst of a war. Despite this she is still more proud of every one of us and our achievements than she is of what she did for us. Her love and determination is what carried us safely through the events narrated in this book.

Where would I be without my siblings, Cambyse, Kiana and Kavian? Their support and encouragement, as well as occasional taunting, is what makes the whole process worthwhile.

But the one person I want to thank above all is my father Hossein. Without him, there would be no story.

Prologue

A shiver ran up my spine as a gentle midnight breeze brushed against the nearby trees and made its way into the tiny mud house. Although house is an exaggeration as it was only a tiny space within four walls; smaller than the room I had spent a few nights in detention with nearly fifteen other people, only a few months ago. There was an opening on one wall; barely enough for a grown man, forcing anyone who enters into humility as they bowed their way inside. There was however, nothing that could be classified as a door. The room was designed to separate the occupant from the cold desert wind but offered no protection from anything more malicious than the weather.

I pulled the blanket closer towards my chin in an attempt to shield my body from any possible intruders. The little mud hut felt smaller and smaller in the chill of the Pakistani desert, as I began to feel more alone than I had ever been in my entire life. All eighteen years of it.

I tried to go to sleep by concentrating on a happy memory like Dad used to make me do when I had trouble sleeping, but all I could see were the negative images. The images of people hurt during the revolution. People wounded in the aftermath of one of the many regular raids we had experienced over the last eight years. The most vivid memory however, was that of my arrest and detention for the possession of forbidden material. The more I tried, the more they haunted me. I wanted to get up but was afraid to leave the safety of my bed.

I was jolted back into the present by the sound of wind trying to imitate a wolf. I then tried to remain alert by studying the room in detail hoping to pass the time quickly. I started sketching the imperfections of the surface in my mind as my brain slowly shut down and I slipped gently into the blackness of the night.

All these years later I still recall the twelve hours I spent alone in the black night, with not a soul for miles, waiting for my smuggler to reunite me with my family. Some details are still etched in my mind, like the final time we were stopped by soldiers at a checkpoint and tried to explain in trembling voices, our reasons for heading towards the border. Other details though were lost over the years. I recalled my father keeping a diary as we made our way from Pakistan to Sydney. I found it on a bookshelf amongst a series of fictional books and not in a safe, to be protected like the treasure it was, detailing one of the most significant events of my life. Perhaps the one event that has set the stage for who I am today, changing my life and me forever. I opened it for the first time since the last note was made back in late 1988.

The memories started flooding back as I flicked through the pages, trying to read through his handwriting in the small spaces for each day, from the twenty third of June that year to the sixteenth of September. I choked up as I recalled the events of that period not to mention the years leading up to it. Having lived in Australia for seven years we had returned to Iran for nearly ten. In the end we had spent most of those years trying to return to Australia. The combination of revolution, war and most importantly shattered dreams had set us on a path from which there would be no return.

I must admit I had forgotten most of the events, partly blocking them from my mind, but mainly since I had marked off the experience and moved on with my life. In the name of nostalgia I spent the next few months retracing the events using either the Internet, old letters or any bit of information I could put together to piece together the ten years I had spent living in what was once the greatest kingdom on earth. My birth country Iran has a long and rich history of kings and legends, poets and artists and my only memory of it was that of repression and war. As I further delved into the detail I recalled that despite the larger events on the surface, I had led a complete and fulfilling life in post revolution Iran.

Although I arrived in Iran at the age of seven, my story had begun well before when Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi was in power in Iran. Over the years, perhaps as a result of too much westernisation or repression of religious teaching, the country demonstrated a need for a change in government. Although the actual start is unclear, it is recorded that in January 1978 four thousand religious students took to the streets in the city of Qom and dared the police who had their guns pointed at them to shoot. The police obliged and around 70 people were killed. Ayatollah Khomeini who was at the time living in exile in Iraq, urged the people to take to the streets to mourn the dead after 40 days and once again the people did so. In the northern city of Tabriz the people took to the streets and demonstrated against the rise of depravity the Shah was alleged to have propagated in Iran. People attacked liquor stores and cinemas, as well as banks in order to attack the rich and decadent; the symbols that amplified the rise in poverty and the drop in living standards for the rest of the population. The Shah declared martial law and ordered a strike against the people. A hundred people were killed and more than six hundred injured. Demonstrations took place everywhere. The Shah tried to maintain control but the people had decided. Policemen were changing into civilian clothes and escaping with the people. Army garrisons refused to open fire into the crowds. Despite the Shah’s public apology people took to the streets and after a fire at the Rex cinema in the southern city of Abadan, where 400 people were killed, he declared martial law. On the first day the people of Tehran took to the streets in protest. The army, assisted by helicopters, drove the people out of the main square and barricaded the city. The people returned armed with Molotov cocktails but were no match for the militia. Although the death toll is debated, it is certain that more people were killed on the 8th of September 1978 than had at any other event. The day was called Black Friday and Jaleh square was later called Meydan – e – Shohada. The martyrs square. We arrived in Iran two days later.

CHAPTER 1 IRAN

10th of September 1978

I squirmed in my seatbelt. I was always fascinated by flying but after eight hours in an airplane, I just wanted to get off.

We’re on the ground, why can't we get off?

Kourosh! Quiet! Wait! my mother said softly as she tried to mobilise Cambyse, my two-year-old brother. I continued to squirm but then Dad looked at me. He didn’t say a word but I decided to stay put. Instead I looked outside as I saw people walking down and onto the tarmac of Mehrabad airport in Tehran.

As soon as the last person in the rows behind us had made their way Dad stood up and started unpacking our luggage from the overhead compartments. Once he was satisfied we had everything, he spoke to Mum who lifted up Cambyse and started walking towards the exit. Dad motioned for me to follow them and he brought up the rear carrying our bags.

I walked down the stairs, one at a time as I breathed in the Iranian air. I looked in amazement at the other planes. At the age of seven I was in awe of these behemoths and could have stayed there looking at them all day had Dad not nudged me along towards the giant buildings. This airport was very different to Singapore, where we had stayed for a few days. I studied the people noticing the differences, not only in appearance but also in their demeanour as we walked inside and made our way towards the luggage carousels. In Singapore the airport was full of holiday shoppers, relaxing as they window-shopped, whereas here everyone was in a hurry going somewhere.

Cigarette smoke began to fill the air as everyone began lighting up their fix. People were jumping around, pulling their belongings off the conveyor belt. Dad pulled out our bags and boxes and dropped them off near us. Once he had piled them into a makeshift sitting area he made us all sit down before turning to Mum: I’m going to see if I can get a connecting flight.

Make sure you ring my parents and tell them we have arrived.

Ok.

It was only a matter of time before I started fidgeting and moving around amongst the people, Mum calling back to keep an eye on me. I had spent the last six years running freely in parks and beaches and therefore sitting around idly was no mean feat. I was restless and even more so curious. I wanted to touch and feel every inch of this new place. I even tried reading the signs but I could only read the English ones, which left most of them out of my capabilities. Eventually she lost patience and snapped at me: Kourosh! Come and sit down before you get lost!

But I want to know where Dad is.

"He’s gone to call Maman-Joon."

Who?

"Maman-Joon is what all your cousins call my mother. Your Grandmother."

I repeated the word in my head. My parents had prepared me for the new language I was to be using, so it wasn’t a surprise that I would have to learn a lot of new words. After all Maman was what I called Mum at home. I had called Dad by his Persian title as well, Baba, from time to time depending on the language I am thinking in, and to this day I alternate between the two without much thought. I wondered of the same rule applied to my Grandfather?

And what do I call my Grandfather?

Agha-Joon.

Nope. A whole new word this time. I then started to ask for more information.

Where do they live?

They live in Shiraz. Your father has gone to see if we can catch a plane from here. Once we get a ticket we can fly down to see all your cousins. Are you excited?

She knew I was. For the last few weeks I had spoken about nothing else. I knew I had six cousins on my mother’s side, all of them younger than I. There were at least four on Dad’s side but our contact with them had been minimal since they mostly lived in villages with little to no communication.

Eventually Mum had to stop talking to me to tend to Cambyse who had started crying. I sat back against a box and sunk into the floor.

In Sydney my parents and I had lived together in our small flat, our size increasing with the arrival of my brother Cambyse. Now I would be meeting more of my family and began to wonder what to expect. I had left behind all my friends and I would have to start from scratch in a whole new place. My excitement turned into apprehension and I started to feel nervous about everything. I was startled back into reality when Mum suddenly grabbed my wrist.

Where’s your watch? she asked as she looked over my left arm.

Trying to hold back tears I stammered: I don’t know! It was on my wrist when we got off the plane.

I had last looked at my Donald Duck watch just as I had woken a couple of hours before we had landed. I didn’t want to seem helpless enough to have it stolen from me so I tried to explain that I had taken it off, which could have been true enough considering I had been fidgeting all this time. Mum kept questioning me as she looked around in her handbag before giving up.

Shortly afterwards, Dad returned. Mum turned to him and exclaimed: He’s lost his watch!

It must have come loose and somebody probably pinched it from him. Dad replied angrily. To be honest that this is the least of my worries right now. I spent the last two hours trying to find a place to exchange some money. Then I had to get some two Rial coins for the phone. Apparently there is money to be made from breaking single ten Rial coins into three two Rial coins. After that I had to wait behind eight people while they went through their life story on the phone.

Did you manage to get through?

No, the lines are all busy. We’ll try and call them from the hotel. They aren’t expecting us in Shiraz for a couple of days anyway.

What about my watch? I cried.

I don’t think you are going to find it here. We’ll have to get you a new one. Let’s get moving.

With that we started to pull our luggage together and move towards the exit. Absently, I scratched the new scar above my lip as we made our way outside the airport and into the street.

My father had studied engineering in Iran and considering his studious nature, it was no surprise when he was awarded a scholarship to study for a doctorate at the University of New South Wales in Sydney. I was less than a year old when he flew to Sydney in order to get established. Within six months my mother and I had joined him. We started in a house in Kensington and eventually moved to a small apartment in Manly Vale where we lived until Dad finished studying. It was in the same apartment that Cambyse was born and I finished year two at Manly public school.

Dad finished his degree with pride, after seven years and could not wait to get back to Iran to apply his newly gained skills. He was eager to repay the debt to the country that had provided him with the means to realise his dream of finishing his education. I was halfway through year three when my class held a farewell party for me and I was whisked away to the airport. Later on mum mentioned to me how my teacher had expressed his concerns about how much I had Australianised. We had assimilated well into the culture and it became clearer over the years, how much of us had been left behind in Sydney.

We had a two-night stopover in Singapore where we had done some shopping. My parents bought me my first full size bicycle, which I couldn’t wait to start riding. Cambyse had ended up with a tricycle and Dad bought himself a new stereo, which he decided to lug with him instead of shipping with the bikes.

In addition to the shopping, I had to visit a doctor to remove the stitches above my lip. I had cut myself sliding down a slippery dip, holding a stick at the park just ten days before. The doctor was happy with the result and I winced at the sharp sting as he gently pulled both stitches out.

On our last day we rode the shuttle to the airport and settled in for what I thought would be the last leg of the trip.

We climbed into a taxi and settled in for the drive back to the city. Mum just sat with Cambyse in her lap staring out the window. Dad and I on the other hand were a little more animated. Are we there yet?

Not quite.

Then where are we?

We are still in Tehran. We are going to spend the night in a hotel. Tomorrow if I can get in touch, we may even be able to see your uncle.

I thought we were seeing them in Shiraz anyway?

"Uncle Shapour is my brother. He lives in a village that is on our way. If I can speak to him, we may be able to meet him and your aunt and cousins" Dad replied excitedly.

This was confusing! How many cousins did I have? So far I have accounted for at least a dozen - or was there more, I can't remember. I was overwhelmed by the concept of having so many relatives that in the end I decided to concentrate on the drive.

As I tried to recall that significant journey to our temporary home, I remember the single image formed in my memory. The only impression I had as I looked out onto the streets, was that they looked grey. There was a distinct absence of colour. Not red or green or blue, but the colours that represent emotions. Everyone appeared distracted and on their guard. No one was jumping for joy or even appeared remotely happy. It is only now that I realise everyone was in mourning. The blood of the people killed only two days before had stained the hearts of the people of Tehran.

I’m hungry.

Well put your clothes on and we’ll go and eat.

Can we have McDonalds?

Despondently Mum replied: I’m afraid your days of eating McDonalds are over.

Dad jumped in from the other side of the room: But we have something even nicer here and I am looking forward to it. Chelow Kebab.

What’s that?

You’ll find out soon enough.

It was early evening by the time we had showered and changed and although I was tired, I was also hungry and even more so, excited at the prospect of walking the streets. The first thing I noticed as we stepped out into the city was the extent of how busy it all appeared to be. Traffic was bumper to bumper, with horns beeping from every direction. The pedestrians were also moving about a lot faster than what I was used to. The traffic volume, however, was not the only thing that differed from my past experiences. The streets were covered with soldiers. From what I could see there appeared to be one on every corner, moving people along and stopping groups of people for questioning. Large green, soft top army trucks travelled alongside the cars carrying soldiers in the back. I even saw what appeared to be a tank parked in a lane on the street with soldiers standing on guard around it. I became more and more excited and kept pointing them out to my mother who tried to distract me while she pushed my brother through the streets, running to keep up with my father.

As a young boy who had grown up in Sydney, having only seen armoury at the war memorial in Canberra, the sight of real tanks in the streets was fantastic.

As we tried to negotiate the crowds, my father gave me the impression of being lost. My parents spoke to each other in Farsi, of which I only understood some distinct words. Although when they spoke to me I used to be able to respond, whatever they said to each other was generally lost on me.

I became conscious of people staring at us as we walked along and I stopped in apprehension when a lady approached my mother and asked her something in Farsi. I became flustered as they spoke and was relieved when the lady screamed out: Of course I do darling. I’m American myself. I could see mum’s face light up in relief considering after nearly seven years in Sydney, she found it easier to speak in English as opposed to her mother tongue. I was happy too, since from the moment we stepped off the plane I was excluded from any conversation my parents had with anyone else.

I figured you weren't from around here. I haven't seen a blouse as colourful as yours in a while. Where have you come from?

Sydney. Proudly she continued: My husband just finished his PHD and we have just come back.

You have picked an odd time to return.

The sadness in Mum’s voice was apparent when she simply said: I know.

We stopped outside a restaurant and I watched the people with fascination as we waited for a seat. I remember everyone looking different. Not just the dark hair and eyes, but everyone had an air of what can only be described as resignation about them, even less cheerful than a group of people coming back to work after the Christmas holidays. Instead of walking along the streets they were rushing to their destinations, looking around nervously as they did so. On reflection, the only thing they were attentive to, was the soldiers and they responded by putting as much distance between them as possible.

Dad ordered our meal as we sat down and I was served my first meal in Iran. Mum and Dad were served a plate of white fluffy rice each. Mum took a plate the waiter handed to her and emptied some of hers onto it, which she put in front of me. We were then brought a tray, which Dad explained was kebab. There were skewers of barbequed chicken and meat, with roasted tomatoes on the side. Mum cut some meat up and put it on my plate. I said no to the tomatoes and started filling up on the food.

Dad was having a ball. Stopping only to comment on how much he missed the cuisine, he insisted on making sure I would appreciate what he had been looking forward to since we stepped on the plane in Sydney. Just thinking of the aroma of freshly prepared Kebab and roasted tomatoes served with rice and sprinkled over with Soomak, is enough to get my mouth watering, but at that moment I struggled to eat it. After years of being used to covering my pies and sausage rolls with tomato sauce, I struggled to swallow it without washing it down with water. I persevered however since in our house you finished your meal; but in the end I gave up and slid my plate over to Dad to clean up.

Dad leaned back and questioned mum: Do you still believe that we have made the wrong decision. Isn’t the food just one of the many things worth coming back for?

Food isn’t the most important thing. I would be happy with a bowl of corn flakes. She finished the sentence by popping a piece of chicken Cambyse had refused, into her mouth. Look at the people around you. Do they look happy? The children around us sound like they haven't been to a park in weeks.

I know it looks a bit dreary now but it’s only because there are changes. People don’t like change. Remember what we were like when we first went to Australia.

I wasn’t even twenty then and I missed my mother. In the last seven years I have made more friends than ever before. And I have managed to give the children the things we didn’t have ourselves.

That much was true. Not a week went by when Mum hadn’t bought me a box of Lego pieces or plastic soldiers. She worked every day in a deli, not only supporting Dad while he studied, but also making sure that we had everything the other kids had. I still remember hovering around her licking the bowl as she made cakes and fairy bread, for our birthday parties year after year.

They have the same things here but different. You’ll see.

Mum was too tired to argue so she pursed her lips in defiance. To this day I recognise the not-so-subtle gesture she uses for when she is saving the outburst for a much bigger punishment later. The expression alone was enough to put me on edge. On the way out we tried to use a pedestrian crossing and were nearly run