Rose Petals

By Simin Pitts

This novel begins with an emotional and heart breaking story of a mother losing her daughter by forced separation by the hands of her husband. Rose Petals is an emotional touching story about an Iranian divorced woman in search of her lost daughter and her life struggles to overcome enormous obstacles that come her way. This story portrays how the Middle Eastern Women are struggling with the male dominated society there and the turmoil created by backward traditions as forced arranged marriages. The story shares with its readers the womans own childhood memories in a by- gone era about her wealthy powerful father who was a pillar of society. He was the teacher for the Prince of Iran, a man that married and divorced sixteen women. The novel shares with its readers a womans triumph over cruelty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468546408

Simin Pitts

Simin Banisadr Pitts is a Persian born woman. She taught Persian Literature for about twenty years. Her life journeys have taken her from Iran to France and lastly to the United States. Presently she resides in Southern California with her husband. Her daughter is married and has a young son.

Book preview

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgement

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Dedication

I would like to dedicate this book to my

dear daughter Parto.

I love her very much with all my heart.

Love always,

Mother

Acknowledgement

I give thanks to my husband Paul for believing in me.

He is always by my side.

He supports my dreams.

Chapter One

I

WAS RUSHING TO

get ready to go to the Mehrabad Airport in Tehran, Iran, the morning my daughter was taken from me. Mehrabad Airport at that time in the 1970s was a modern airport with nice restaurants and bars. I was all alone in my lonely Tehran apartment, forcing myself to get dressed, trying to throw something on, as fashion was out of the window. At the time, it did not matter if I had only one sock or two different color shoes. I could not eat at all, even though I normally ate breakfast daily. I was fighting the constant tears of a mother’s grief, worrying that my daughter, Bahar, would leave before I could say good-bye. She was with my ex-husband at his mother’s home.

It was 5:00 a.m., and I could not sleep at all the night before. I was like a zombie, feeling like someone tore out my heart and stepped on it. I felt weak and nauseated, ready to faint. I had to drive myself that dreadful morning, all alone except for God. A drive that usually took only thirty minutes seemed to take an eternity. All the while I was aware that I must not be late so I would not miss her leaving and never have one last good-bye. I knew I may never see her again.

I was constantly in tears, and I could not stop thinking about losing Bahar. I made many wrong turns, having to struggle to find my way back to the airport route, and only by God’s help was I able to find it. From the corner of my eyes, it appeared that trees on the side of the street were running away from me, as if they knew that I was so upset and rushed to get there. Most trips to the airport before this day were usually joyful, with meeting traveling relatives once more to take home to celebrate their journeys and share stories and gifts.

It was tradition for all families to meet a visiting or departing family member at the airport. It did not matter if the trip was short or long; the whole family would go to the airport, rain or shine, old or young, to send the family member off or pick up. Tehran Airport was the one and only airport for most travelers’ small trips or overseas flights. The airport was always busy and crowded, with both passengers and the passengers’ families. The parking lot was usually near capacity at all times. In the ‘70s, airport security was almost nonexistent compared to today. There were no X-rays, no metal detectors, no scanners like we have today, and almost no restrictions on what you could carry on the plane with you.

Barbars were there to help you with your suitcases, strong men who could help you carry your luggage to the gate or to your transportation. They could be seen all over the airport, helping passengers with their suitcases for a small tip. Back then, the airport had few gates, as there were few airlines one could choose. There were four or five nice restaurants at the airport. These were not fast food or junk food but places you could get a healthy meal. I remember these restaurants served both Middle Eastern-style meals as well as European menus.

These restaurants usually provided beautiful views of the city and landscape. They were elevated, giving the patrons a bird’s-eye view of the city of Tehran and surrounding area. These restaurants were a popular rendezvous for young people to meet and socialize. It was common for Tehran’s locals to meet and eat at these establishments, even though they were not travelers. The food was tasty, and the atmosphere of the airport gave them a warm feeling of family. It would bring back fond memories of meeting their family after returning home from a long journey. The airport was considered a happy place for all its patrons, both travelers and guests. The airport food establishments served high-quality, fresh Persian breads and to-die-for fresh pastries that were not overloaded with sugar or fats but maintained a melt-in-your-mouth flavor.

Back then, if you left home to go out in public, it was customary to put on your dress-up clothes, and it was not considered proper to wear casual clothes such as jeans, shorts, and T-shirts. Instead, the men would put on a nice suit and tie with dress shoes. Women would put on the latest European fashion and makeup. It was in fashion back then for the ladies to wear miniskirts from Europe, along with lipstick and makeup. The ladies were often seen wearing bikinis at the pool or beach.

Instead, for the first time, I was heading to a gate of sorrow, where I would forever lose a part of me. I had cried so much that morning, the tears had left a salty, dry taste in my mouth. Somehow I made it to the airport’s crowded departure lobby. I desperately scanned the area, only to realize Bahar was not to be found anywhere. I felt as if my heart was in my throat, fearful that I had lost her forever. Now I wouldn’t have the chance to see her one more time, to let her know I’ll never give her up and I love her, even though we were physically separated by circumstances beyond my control. I must hug her, even if only one more time.

I hoped she was not too far behind the Customs door, and I began pushing and screaming at the officers in front of that door, shouting at them that my little girl was going to France and I had to say good-bye to her. I screamed at the guards, You don’t understand. My little daughter is inside and leaving and I must say good-bye to her before she leaves!

One of the guards barked with a mean scowl on his face, No, it is too late, and nobody is allowed to go to Customs except the passengers!

Somehow God gave me the courage to keep pushing, and my prayers were answered. Their military hardness seemed to melt away and give way to pity. They seemed to understand that the real strength of a mother’s love goes far beyond man’s law and rules. I could feel God and his angels there, helping me through one hardened Iranian guard after another. When I ran past the guards, behind the restricted door, I saw my daughter on the other side, looking back at that door. She was holding her little nine-year-old hand over her heart, hoping to see her mother. I thought you were not coming to say good-bye to me! she said.

I reached her and desperately hugged and kissed her many times, saying to her, I am so sorry! I got lost on the way to the airport.

My daughter told me how her little heart was pounding so fast from fear that she would not be able to see me to say good-bye to me. I could feel her little body trembling, and I could see a deep hurt in her eyes that ripped at my own heart. There was a smell of death in that room after my daughter was taken from me with no knowledge when or even if I would see her again.

I somehow made it back to my lonely apartment and found myself looking at her empty bed and her clothes. Many tears streamed down my face all over again. That sad event forever changed my life and my daughter’s life. That day is frozen in eternity, changing our lives and leaving a scar so deep that our lives will never be the same. The hurt left irreparable damage to mother and daughter that affects us both to this day. That day, I learned how it feels to be powerless and lose control of my life. Many women all over the world have experienced this pain, and we are left with a scar on our hearts, a scar so painful that I have been unable to describe it in writing until now.

My story is all too common, happening again and again to mothers and daughters all over the world. I know that without God’s intervention, that sad day would have been much worse. I would have suffered a sorrow much deeper. I am thankful for God and his angels’ glorious victory that day, allowing me to hug and kiss my daughter before she was shipped away.

Back in my apartment, I went straight to my daughter’s room. I scanned the room and focused on her empty bed. The toys she was forced to abandon were staring back at me. I looked at her clothes, and suddenly my eyes were drawn to a doll with big, beautiful eyes, an innocent face, and black hair just like my daughter’s. In a flash, I imagined the doll had tears streaming down her face. I reached out and held the doll as if it was my daughter. I began kissing and talking with the doll in my lonely desperation. I cannot explain why or how the doll made tears, only that the tears were real for me.

Chapter Two

T

HERE IS A

six-year-old girl, wearing her school uniform, sitting in front of a house, waiting for any passerby to ring the doorbell for her, as she is too small to reach it. I see this same little girl standing frightened at the top of a dresser, where her father has placed her; as she was so small, she would now be visible to her father’s guests. Her father asks her to recite famous poets’ sophisticated poems she had memorized by heart. Her mother and aunt had taught her these rich poems. This little girl was more afraid of her father than of the precarious perch she had been placed upon by him to showcase her ability to recite poems for the delight and entertainment of his guests.

"I walked within a garden fair

At dawn, to gather roses there

When suddenly sounded in the dale

The singing of a nightingale

Alas, he loved a rose, like me

And he, too loved in agony

With sad and mellow pace

I wondered in that flowery place

And thought upon the tragic tale

Of love and rose, and nightingale

The rose was lonely, as I tell

The nightingale he loved well

He with no other love could live,

And she no kindly word would give

It moved me strangely, as I heard

The singing of that passionate bird

So much it moved me, I could not

Endure the burden of his throat

Full many a fair and fragrant rose

Within the garden freshly blows,

Yet not a bloom was ever torn

Without the wounding of the thorn

Think not, O Hafiz any cheer

To gain of fortune’s wheeling sphere

Fate has a thousand turns of ill

And never a tremor of good will."

Hafez

My father demanded that my brother and I be brought to his house. The house resembled a small museum, as it was filled with rare and beautiful antiques, rugs, rare books, figurines, and furniture. My father was known by all the antique dealers by his first name, as he was a collector in the fullest sense. He collected everything in his life—no exceptions. His rare antique book collection was spread throughout the house and overflowed into his basement. Some of his books dated back to Muhammad’s time and were in their original goatskin covers; these books were very rare and expensive. He also had a coin and stamp collection that was worthy of a king, with many rare and sought-after stamps and gold coins centuries old. My father collected antique rugs, many of them rare and exquisitely handmade. The large house was overflowing with these beautiful antique Persian rugs, with all the floors covered by them and often double-stacked, because he had run out of space! I sometimes tripped on these stacked rugs if I was not careful.

The walls were adorned with many splendid oil paintings that my father felt he should own. The paintings were one-of-a-kind and brought out the imagination of the viewer. Lastly, but just as important, was his collection throughout the large house of many handmade