An Iranian Mosaic

By Jennifer Cook

An Iranian Mosaic follows the lives and the friendship of three different families. The book is divided into three parts: the nineteen fifties, sixties and seventies. The story begins in May 1955, in Tehran, when the Jarari family is attacked because they are Baha'i's, a religious minority group in Iran. It is decided that Husayn, 12, and Elahe, 11, will go to Manchester, England to stay with the Townsend family, and attend school with Elizabeth, 14 and Thomas, 12. It is very exciting and very scary for them to be so far from home.

The story follows the lives of the four children in England, and back to a summer adventure in Iran. It then follows them to university in Geneva, Switzerland, where they become involved in communist intrigue. In the third part, they are adults back in Tehran and the story follows their children, Rory, Sarah and Caspian. Tehran is in turmoil. The Shah and Shahbanu leave the country to go into exile, and the Ayatollah Khomeini returns to lead the revolution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jun 11, 2003
• ISBN: 9781412211062

Jennifer Cook

Jennifer Cook has lived in many parts of the world and now makes her home in Ottawa. Although her books are fiction, they are based on events, which happened in the countries where she was living at the time. She says: "I have been very fortunate to live in the most amazing countries, where I met wonderful people who allowed me to enter their lives." This is Jennifer Cook's second novel. Her first book "Flight Across the Mekong" was published in 1999 by TSAR Publications of Toronto.

Book preview

AN IRANIAN MOSAIC

by

Jennifer Cook

Published by

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In cooperation with

OLIVER BOOKS of OTTAWA

Also by Jennifer Cook

Flight Across The Mekong

(TSAR 1999)

© Copyright 2003 Jennifer Cook. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Cover Art by Carol

Biberstein Author photograph by Andrea Rose

Oliver Books

PO Box 56029, Minto Place

407 Laurier Avenue West

Ottawa, Ontario, K1R 7Z0

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

Cook, Jennifer, 194 0-

An Iranian mosaic / Jennifer Cook.

ISBN 1-4120-0130-7 1.

ISBN 978-1-4122-1106-2 (ebook)

Iran--Fiction. I. Title.

PS8555.O5636I73 2003      C813’.54      C2 0 03-9 01775-3 PR9199.3.C6385I73 2003

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This book was published on-demand in cooperation with Trafford Publishing.

On-demand publishing is a unique process and service of making a book available for retail sale to the public taking advantage of on-demand manufacturing and Internet marketing. On-demand publishing includes promotions, retail sales, manufacturing, order fulfilment, accounting and collecting royalties on behalf of the author.

Suite 6E, 2333 Government St., Victoria, B.C. V8T 4P4, CANADA

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Contents

PREFACE

Ottawa, Canada

PART I-THE FIFTIES

CHAPTER ONE

PERSECUTION

CHAPTER TWO

FIRE

CHAPTER THREE

HUSAYN’S FRIEND DARIUS

CHAPTER FOUR

MANCHESTER, ENGLAND

CHAPTER FIVE

SCHOOL

CHAPTER SIX

SUSAN AND THE MULLAH

CHAPTER SEVEN

ISKANDAR

CHAPTER EIGHT

A MIRACLE

CHAPTER NINE

CHRISTMAS

CHAPTER TEN

THE EXILE ENDS

CHAPTER ELEVEN

HOME TO TEHRAN

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE INVITATION

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ARABS

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THOMAS

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE MINIATURE

PART II-THE SIXTIES

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE TUDEH PARTY

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A STRANGE ENCOUNTER

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHARMING THOMAS

CHAPTER NINETEEN

ELIZABETH AND DONALD

CHAPTER TWENTY

THE COMRADES

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

DEALING WITH A THREAT

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE SOLUTION

PART THREE-THE SEVENTIES

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

SARAH

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

BLACK FRIDAY

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

SAVAK CLOSING IN

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

BORIS DIMITROV

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

EXECUTION

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

REVOLUTION

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHANGE

CHAPTER THIRTY

THE SEIGE

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

STRATEGY

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

RORY AND SARAH

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

THE THIRD DAY

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

THE END

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

AND...

GLOSSARY

BIBLIOGRAPHY

To Andrea and Alex

and

In memory of Margaret, Eric and Oliver Cook

Consider the flowers of a garden; though differing in kind, colour, form and shape, yet, inasmuch as they are refreshed by the waters of one spring, revived by the breath of one wind, invigorated by the rays of one sun, this diversity increaseth their charm, and addeth unto their beauty.

from Selections from the Writings of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá

A NOTE TO THE READER

This story is fiction. None of the characters ever existed. But it could have been true because the historical facts did take place and very similar events happened and are still happening to Bahá’ís in Iran.

Of course, Tehran, Isfahan, Shiraz and Persepolis all exist as do the other places and the garden. My family and I once lived in a house in Tehran with a garden just like the one in my story.

A big thank you to my Iranian friends who vetted this book and gave advice.

MAP OF IRAN

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LIST OF CHARACTERS

Part 1

In Tehran

The Jarari Family

Keyvan Jarari

Eshragh Jarari, his wife

Their children:

      Husayn

      Elahe

      Susan

      Farah

      Khadije

      Nilufar

Bibi Jarari, Keyvan’s widowed mother

Ahmed, the Jarari’s gardener

His family:

Fatemeh, his wife

Their children:

      Ali

      Nasir

Asghar, the driver

The Kazami Family

Mohammed Kazami

Safia Kazami, his wife

Their children:

      Iskandar

      Darius

In Manchester

The Townsend Family

John Townsend

Katherine, his wife

Their children:

      Elizabeth

      Thomas

Mary and George Townsend (Granny and Granddad)

Mrs. Jones, the Townsend’s daily help

Mr. Forbes Smith-headmaster (principal) of the boys’ school

Miss Balfour-headmistress (principal) of the girls’ school

In London

Mr. Prosser

Mr. Siddeley

Part 2 in Geneva, Switzerland

Boris Dimitrov, a Bulgarian student

Françoise, Elahe’s friend and Darius’ girlfriend

In Manchester

Donald MacKenzie, Elizabeth’s fiancé

Part 3 in Tehran

Donald and Elizabeth’s children:

      Rory

      Sarah

Thomas and Elahe’s son:

      Caspian

Azar Kazami, Iskandar’s wife

Their children:

      Mohammed

      Leila

In the Preface and Final Chapter in Ottawa, Canada

Sarah and Mohammed Kazami’s daughter, Lizzie

PREFACE

Ottawa, Canada

Sarah sat amongst a growing mountain of papers and treasures as she took them out of the old steamer trunk, which sat at the foot of the bed. The trunk was cracked with age but the wooden struts and brass hardware were as strong as ever.

It was ages since she’d looked inside, but the evening before her daughter Lizzie had asked about the miniature. This innocent question had seemed to open a door and a flood of memories had swept in, keeping her awake most of the night.

She stood up and walked over to her desk in the bay window and picked up the miniature. It was not very large-two by four inches, delicately hand-painted on ivory in a pretty mosaic frame-so very Iranian. However, the frame was old and the mosaic had dried out and cracked, and some pieces were missing. But the miniature was as fresh and delicate as the day it was painted. The brush strokes were very fine-exquisite. Each stroke was clearly defined.

Sarah had always loved this miniature. Not just because Iskandar had given it to her mother, Elizabeth, and they’d both loved him so much, but also because its beauty and its Persianness made it so special. She and Mohammed had treasured it a long time, ever since her mother had given it to them a few days before their wedding.

But Mum, she’d protested, it means so much to you, I know it does.

"Yes, it does. But I’m sure Iskandar would have liked you and

Mohammed to have it. I’ll be able to see it when I visit, and I’ve had it so long and I know it so well, that I can picture every brushstroke without actually looking at it. I think Iskandar would be so pleased to know our families are actually going to be united in marriage."

Sarah’s train of thought was interrupted by the sound of her daughter’s arrival.

Lizzie bounded into the house, banging the front door shut. She dropped her bag, her winter clothing and her skates in a heap at the door. She left them just where they fell. Finally, she kicked off her boots at the bottom of the stairs and wiggled her toes with relief. They felt nearly frozen. She’d skated several miles down the canal from school, with the wind blowing full blast from the north into her face.

At the bottom of the stairs, she listened intently for some sound. The house appeared empty.

Mama? she called. There was the scrape of a chair on wood, and her mother leaned over the banister and looked down.

Lizzie, you’re home. Come up, I want to show you something.

She took the stairs two at a time and followed her mother into the room. The curtains were still open and she could see, out of the window, a few other hardy skaters bent against the wind, in the gathering dusk.

Sarah’s desk, bookcases and a filing cabinet were in the large window alcove, so she could look out as she sat at her desk. Lizzie immediately noticed the dilapidated box on top of the desk rather than her mother’s usual mess of papers.

What are you doing?

I’ve been looking through letters and things. This is a box of family papers covering the first years of our marriage and before. When you asked about the miniature painting, it set me thinking and I found gaps in my memory. But these old photos, letters and other mementos have bombarded me with memories. Some wonderful, some sad and others just terrible. When you’re ready, I will tell you all about the miniature, about our families and Iran. It’s time you knew our families’ histories. It’s time for you to know who you are.

I’m ready.

‘Look, I’ve tried to put together the family trees to show how the families fit together. It’s a bit like a jigsaw puzzle." Sarah displayed a long sheet on which she’d listed various names under the three main family names.

Cool. The families really do interlock, and my name is the final one right at the bottom drawing them together. That’s really neat!

"It all began a long time ago in Iran. My story begins in the nineteen-fifties, in an area called Golestan in the north of Tehran. My great-uncle Keyvan and his wife Eshragh lived in a beautiful bungalow on the edge of the desert. They weren’t actually related to us, but even then the families were so close that they felt like family. Keyvan’s widowed mother, Bibi, also lived with them and their son, Husayn, and five daughters. Ali, the gardener, and his family lived in the gatehouse. They too were very much part of this story.

See, here is a photo of Bibi, Keyvan, Eshragh and the children. This must have been taken just before Husayn and Elahe went to England to live with the Townsends, your great grandparents and your granny, my mother.

But, Mama, why did they go to England? They look so young and scared!

Yes, they were very young and very scared. But they lived in bad times, and John Townsend invited them to live with his family until things quietened down in Tehran.

But why? What happened?

PART I-THE FIFTIES

CHAPTER ONE

PERSECUTION

Tehran, May 1955

It was dusk. Twelve-year-old Husayn stood perfectly still under the leafy arbour with his eyes closed. All around him, thousands and thousands of small birds were flying in from the desert to roost for the night. The beating of their wings and the clamour of their voices were almost more than he could bear. An occasional soft wing brushed against his face. Feathers, twigs and leaves cascaded lightly down, like a soft rain. He opened his eyes briefly. He felt as if he was in a green tunnel, which was becoming darker and darker, and he was being beaten down, down into a dark vortex. The wings were beating, beating around him, and more and more were brushing against his face, his ears, and through his hair. He felt like screaming—screaming louder than the noise of the birds, screaming for them to stop. But he didn’t. He remained silent. He was in their refuge. He was the intruder. Husayn shut his eyes again and let the sound bombard his whole being. He was there by choice. He didn’t have to be there. But, in a way, he wanted to be assaulted by sound because it drowned out the other terrible pain in his mind and heart.

All at once, the whirr of wings ceased, the birdsong reached a crescendo, reminding him of a full orchestra reaching a magnificent climax and then there was complete silence. He opened his eyes. It was quite dark.

Very slowly, so as not to disturb the birds, Husayn crept out to sit on the stone edge of the goldfish pond beneath the huge mulberry tree in the centre of the garden. He was literally shaking with stress and exhaustion. The only light penetrating through the dark was from the house. He felt overwhelmingly thankful that his family was safe within the confines of the high wall, which shut out a hostile world.

Only half an hour earlier, his father came with the terrible news that the Minister of the Interior had proclaimed their faith, the Bahá’í Faith, banned and all Bahá’í centres liquidated.

The Jarari family lived in Tehran, the capital city of Iran, and they were Bahá’ís. Husayn was the eldest child and only son of Keyvan and Eshragh. He had five sisters: Elahe, Susan, Farah, Khadije and Nilufar, the baby. His father’s widowed mother, his grandmother, also lived with them.

As often in the past, the Bahá’ís were once again convenient scapegoats. Although they were the largest minority religious group in Iran, they weren’t officially recognized nor protected by the Shah’s imperial constitution. So when the mullah, Shaykh Muhammed Taqi Falsafi, urged the people to rise against Islam’s enemies, it was politically profitable for the government to condone the fanatical mullah’s outcry.

The Muslim clergy felt threatened by a people who challenged their theological teachings, especially as their numbers grew.

As a group, they were hard working, many were well educated and, therefore, prosperous. They were ideal targets for pogroms-especially as they wouldn’t retaliate with violence.

Fear-filled weeks followed for the Bahá’í community. Husayn’s family didn’t leave the safety of their walled refuge in the northeast of Tehran, in the shadow of the Elburz Mountains. Their family’s textile factory was attacked by a howling mob, and some machinery was destroyed. Homes of less fortunate Bahá’ís were looted and some even burned down, and out in the countryside, crops were destroyed and livestock slaughtered.

Husayn and his eleven-year-old sister, Elahe, listened intently to their father, Keyvan, as he explained what was happening, but they didn’t fully understand why their community was under attack. However, their daily routine remained more or less unchanged, with the exception that they remained within the family compound.

It was very quiet away from the clamour of car horns; the shrill voices of hawkers, selling everything from carpets and iced-drinks, to fruit and plastic toys; the call to prayer from the tall muezzin towers, and the voluble conversations of the people