Monavar's Journey: Bridge to Hope

By Regine M TESSONE

On February 1, 1979, Regine Monavar Tessone recalls running through the Mehrabad airport with her parents and three brothers to board the last flight out of Tehran on the eve of the Islamic Revolution. The pilot announced as they entered the aircraft, "You are the lucky ones! The

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Mar 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638373070

Regine M TESSONE

REGINE MONAVAR TESSONE is an Iranian American fashion designer. As a graduate of the Fashion Institute of Technology, she founded Aqua Modesta, a unique line of modest women's swimwear and sportswear that attained worldwide success. Her initial professional goals achieved, she wrote this memoir to fulfill a lifelong dream: to share the story of her family's incredible escape on the last flight out of Tehran. She resides with her husband and children in New York and Jerusalem.

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PART 1

Do not worry about your entry card into this world, because life itself is a treasury of OMID/hope. You will surely succeed one day, with patience and forgiveness. Omid is the down payment to life without which there is nothing more. Whatever difficulties lie your way will one day be simplified, and once more the broken house will be a garden.

—Dr. Eshagh Omid A"H

Chapter 1

KINDNESS—MOHABAT

What we speak becomes the house we live in.

—Hafiz¹

A

mong my fondest childhood memories is the day Papa and I spent together over the Passover holiday. One sunny, sweet-smelling morning we drove out of Tehran into the countryside that surrounds the capital city. Spring was in the air. Almond and pistachio trees were beginning to blossom. Fresh pistachios were my favorite snack. We picked them off the trees and peeled off the delicious soft, red skin to uncover a soft shell, within which a delicious pistachio awaited our enjoyment. The fragrant smell of small white jasmine flowers surrounded us. Papa loved to point out how nature's beauty and tranquility take over our senses as we leave the city.

Papa rarely spoke about our upcoming plans, wanting to retain the surprise element. Every trip or outing was an adventure to be remembered. As I was at the tender age of eight, the notion that this could be my last Passover in Iran was as far away as where we were heading. The following year we would be in exile in America. Neither one of us could have predicted that the world we loved so much would come to such a quick demise due to the Islamic revolution that overtook my birthplace.

1 Persian lyric poet Hafiz (born Khwāja Šamsu d-Dīn Muḥammad Hāfez-e Šīrāzī) grew up in Shiraz. Very little is known about his life, but it is thought that he may have memorized the Qur’an after hearing his father recite passages. When his father died, he left school to work at a bakery and as a copyist. Hafiz became a poet at the court of Abu Ishak and also taught at a religious college. He is one of the most celebrated of the Persian poets, and his influence can be felt to this day. As the author of numerous ghazals expressing love, spirituality, and protest, he and his work continue to be important to Iranians, and many of his poems are used as proverbs or sayings. Hafiz's tomb is in Musalla Gardens in Shiraz (poetryfoundation.org).

Many Iranians were overall a kind and jovial people. On the road, we wished others Norrooz Mobarak, as the spring not only ushered in the Passover holiday but the Persian Zoroastrian New Year as well. At times, they fell directly together on the calendar year. It was a happy time for all Iranian citizens. Few of us sensed any looming danger. To the contrary, we felt hopeful, for a new year always symbolized new hope of a bright future.

Papa and I got out of the car and walked along a dirt road. Papa took long strides, and I struggled to keep up. He always wore dress pants and a button-down collared shirt. Often at work he wore a suit jacket and tie, which reflected a sense of timeless elegance. We made our way to a sight I will never forget. Men, women, and children as far as the eye could see were seated on scattered pieces of patched-up pavement. This did not look like a well-kept city but one where passersby did not stop. Papa, what are we doing here? I asked innocently.

Papa looked at me and said, Watch and learn. He deposited some money into my hand and said, As we walk by, deposit the coins into their hands and smile. I followed his example. Feeling uncomfortable at first, I deposited a few rials (the Iranian currency, equivalent to one dollar at that time) into a woman's stretched-out hands. Her skin was wrinkled and darkened by the blazing sun of the Middle East. She had dirt embedded underneath her fingernails. Slung against her body was a newborn baby held within an old, discolored piece of fabric. She smiled and thanked me profusely. I felt genuinely sad for her and the baby. Afterward, I felt a spark of goodness that I could make a small difference in her life.

Papa kept adding coins into my hand so I could keep on distributing them as we went gradually past one person to another. When we reached a middle-aged man, Papa held back my hand and asked the man his name.

Ali, he replied.

Ali, do you have any skills? Papa asked.

Yes, I can do anything you would need me to do, Ali responded in near desperation.

Are you married with children? Papa queried.

Yes, Ali replied.

How many kids do you have?

Five, he responded.

This questioning went on for quite some time. Papa did all the asking, and Ali humbly responded. Finally, Papa asked him if he would be willing to commute to Tehran and work in his office. Ali was overjoyed. He kept thanking and blessing Papa for hiring him. Surprisingly, Ali did not even ask Papa about how much he would be paid. Papa gave him some money for his first commute and said he looked forward to seeing him at work. Ali took Papa's address and said he would show up first thing Sunday morning.

In Iran, Sunday was the beginning of a new work week. Friday was the official day off, and Papa did not work on Shabbat (Saturday).

Papa shook Ali's hand firmly and smiled. That's all it took to seal their work arrangements.

Watching them talk made me think of the long lines on Friday mornings where so many Persians who did not have indoor plumbing in their homes would wait for their turn to shower in the public bathhouses, built by the shah for them to use. It was part of the enhancement program designed to make city life more enjoyable for all. I wondered if Ali stood in line with his towel and a bar of soap in hand.

This scene was etched in my childhood memory, as nearly every Friday morning, Papa and I would do errands to help Maman with the shopping. Watching them stand in line made me truly appreciate having two bathrooms in our home. While we were not observant Jews, we followed tradition, and preparing for the Shabbat was important.

We proceeded to the next person, a woman who called out for help with money. Papa asked her if she would like a job instead of begging. She responded, No one would hire me, and asking for money is better than starving. Papa asked if she had a husband and children. To both, she responded affirmatively. He told her to get permission from her husband to work in our home as a cleaning woman. She said she would ask him and get back to us. The reason for this roundabout method was that a woman was not allowed to work without her husband's permission. Although the shah made many reforms to westernize Iran, women's rights still had a long way to go. Papa gave her our home telephone number and told her to call as soon as she had an answer. He then gestured for me to give her some rials.

We continued this way for quite some time. I gave out rials, and Papa asked the various men and woman if they wanted to work. Finally, I asked, Papa, how many people can you possibly need?

They will not all work for me. I will refer some to others who need cleaning ladies and office workers or maintenance crews.

I learned an invaluable lesson that day. Our Jewish sages teach us that employing a needy person is the greatest act of charity.

Years later after Papa had passed, I met an Iranian man in New York City who related that he had worked with Papa selling electronics. Papa had to let him go because business was weak. However, Papa found him another job, as the man had a wife and children and could not afford to be unemployed. He blessed Papa and declared that few men were as kind as him. When I told him that Papa had passed, he was deeply saddened and blessed us and his memory.

Papa taught me by example that the greatest act of kindness one can perform for another is to set them on their own two feet financially. Employing others is better than charity because work gives them dignity. However, as I witnessed that day, both were necessary. Some people preferred to get a handout rather than work. It was an incredible day indeed, one that left an indelible mark deep in my young soul. I felt really Khoshbacht (happy and lucky in Farsi) to be the daughter of this kind and generous man named Eshagh Omid, may his memory be blessed.

It ran in the family. My paternal grandmother, Monavar, my namesake, told all of her five children every evening before bedtime: Mehrabun bashin—be kind.

CHAPTER 2

LINEAGE

Maybe you are searching among the branches

for what only appears in the roots.

—Rumi²

"O

mid Olhadj? What kind of a name is that for a Jew?" This question was asked of me numerous times while growing up in Tehran. Decades earlier, my paternal grandfather, Agha, had changed our original name of Gohar Sinai—which translates into Jewels of Sinai—to Omid Olhadj, a phrase in Farsi that means I hope to make a pilgrimage. Although the implied pilgrimage was to Mecca, as a Jew, he secretly longed to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. As fate would have it, my paternal grandparents did make aliyah (move to Israel) late in their lives and were subsequently buried there as well.

The title Agha was bestowed upon all the grandfathers, a term of reverence that literally means sir. We didn’t know his first name, Mordechai, until we were all grown up. Yet he took the name Omid Olhadj because of periodic outbursts of anti-Semitism by the Muslims among whom we lived. The name change concealed the family's Jewish identity. In his lifetime, acts of anti-Semitism were committed many times against Jews living in Iran.

2 Rūmī, in full Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī, (born c. September 30, 1207, Balkh [now in Afghanistan]—died December 17, 1273, Konya [now in Turkey]), the greatest Sufi mystic and poet in the Persian language, famous for his lyrics and for his didactic epic Mas̄ navī-yi Maʿnavī (Spiritual Couplets), which widely influenced mystical thought and literature throughout the Muslim world. Rūmī's use of Persian and Arabic in his poetry, in addition to some Turkish and less Greek, has resulted in his being claimed variously for Turkish literature and Persian literature, a reflection of the strength of his influence in Iran and Turkey. The influence of his writings in the Indian subcontinent is also substantial. By the end of the twentieth century, his popularity had become a global phenomenon, with his poetry achieving a wide circulation in Western Europe and the United States. (britannica.com)

Erroneously, people think the notion of a yellow Star of David is unique to Nazi Germany. Yet, on occasion, Jewish people in Iran were required to wear a yellow star as a means of differentiation and degradation. Jews were treated as second-class citizens in general, although this treatment extended to all non-Shiite citizens. They could not hold government or military offices. The Shi’i religious precept of the impurity of the Jews was invoked to bar them entrance to the local marketplace.³ As a result, many Jews became peddlers and were often living in poverty. During previous times of peaceful coexistence, Jews and other non-Shiites were granted the status of the Dhimma. Dhimma refers to the protection offered to non-Shiite people of the book, such as Jews and Christians, by the ruling sheiks in exchange for paying exorbitant taxes and dues.

My uncle Moise, or Amujan, which means dear uncle in Farsi, my father's youngest brother, once told me that in Iran, it was not uncommon to bury a dead child in a Jewish person's backyard and then frame the Jewish person for having committed the crime. Then, in exchange for the Jew being released from jail, the officials would demand an exorbitant sum of money from the family. As most families did not have such money at the time, the Jewish community would have to fundraise to release this badbacht (poor, misfortunate person in Farsi).

After we left Iran in 1979, Papa AH (an honorific meaning may he rest in peace") dropped the Olhadj and kept the Omid, which is the word in Farsi for hope. We no longer wanted or needed to assume a Muslim name in the US. It's fascinating the way history plays a role in our names, as we Jews are constantly trying to fit in wherever in the world we are.

3 Between Foreigners and Shi’is: Nineteenth-Century Iran and Its Jewish Minority by Daniel Tsadik.

Papa's name was Eshagh AH, which means Isaac" in Farsi, and my mother's name is Sonia. Papa was born and raised in Iran and hailed from a Judeo-Persian lineage dating back to the Babylonian exile after the destruction of the first temple in Jerusalem around 586 BCE. Maman, the name we used for our mom, was born in Beirut, Lebanon, and married Papa in Frankfurt, Germany.

One year after my parents married, they migrated back to Iran, bringing along my oldest brother, Roger, who was a year and a half at the time. Roger was born on November 28, 1963, in Frankfurt, nine months after my parents’ wedding. The only time we ever heard Roger speak in German was in his sleep. Believe it or not, that was quite often. Roger's skin pigment was much lighter than the rest of ours. While we looked very Persian with our dark eyes, dark hair, and olive skin, he resembled a European with his milky-white skin and hazel-colored eyes.

Prior to my parents’ marriage, Papa sold Persian rugs in various stores in Germany. Among his customers was Maman's cousin Arlette's husband. He was the one that suggested a possible match with my mother.

Papa, how did you know Maman was the woman you sought to marry? You had never met her before, I asked, genuinely intrigued by the story of how they met.

True, but upon seeing her pretty face in a photograph from Arlette, I knew she was the lovely woman I wished to marry and raise a family with. She had very kind, soft eyes and a beautiful set of teeth.

I laughed as I recalled that Papa had studied dentistry, and surely that is something dentists notice at first glance. He then proceeded to show me the picture he carried with him at all times. I was astounded at how this tiny black-and-white photograph sealed my father's love so long ago.

My mother left her family in Beirut and stayed with her cousin Arlette and her family. After three months of courtship, my parents were engaged. French was the common language between them because Maman had learned French in alliance school in Beirut and Papa studied dentistry in Paris.

My parents had quite a gap in years between them. My father did not reveal his true age to my mother when they first met, but he was thirty-seven while she was nineteen. To everyone's surprise, they made a compatible couple, as my mother was mature beyond her years and my father had an incredible joie de vivre and remained young in his looks and at heart until his last days.

At the time, my father was very successful in his business. He had previously provided airline tickets and travel accommodations for his mother, his brother Moise (Moshe in Hebrew), and his only sister, Mahin (she later changed it to Yael upon migrating to Israel), for a vacation in Germany. By coincidence, they would attend his wedding to my mother a short time later. His father and two other brothers, Ebrahim (Avraham) and Yaacob (Jacob), could not come.

My mother's father and siblings could not attend either. It was difficult for my mother not to have her entire family there, as they were very close knit. My mother was the fourth of six siblings. My mother's family all spoke fluent French as well as Arabic, as they lived in Beirut. Some members of her family also spoke Hebrew, as they lived in Israel for a short time. My grandmother and her sister Rachelle, who was also Arlette's mother, traveled by boat to the wedding in Germany.

The wedding was grand and beautiful, befitting a king and queen. After the wedding, they celebrated for seven consecutive nights with grandiose feasts. Unfortunately, about a year later, my father's business slowed down, and in order to avoid declaring bankruptcy, my parents decided to move back to Iran. In those years, anyone in Germany who declared bankruptcy could be forced to serve time in jail if they could not pay their debts. In Germany, declaring bankruptcy is a criminal offense.

Papa actually preferred to move to France because he had already lived there when he received his dental training. He felt an affinity for the French style of life. Maman saw things differently, though. Having heard of the reforms taking place in Iran, she believed it would be a great opportunity to begin life all over again in my father's homeland. She saw great potential for a successful life there, and since my father's families were already settled there, they would be a source of comfort and help.

Maman was pregnant with my second brother at the time. Ironically, because my parents now had limited funds, they made a decision to drive to Iran in their Mercedes-Benz. On the way, they stopped in France for a month and then continued to Turkey to meet with my mother's family, who were vacationing there.

Maman's maiden name is Yedid-Lawi, which translates to friendly Levites. Although her family had lived in Lebanon for many years, they originated in Italy. Perhaps that is the reason why many of her family members are fair skinned with hazel, green, and blue eyes. Papa always admired Maman's light skin and hazel eyes as marks of great beauty. Most Persian women had dark brown eyes and dark skin color. Maman's father and siblings finally met my father for the first time. My grandfather, or Deda as we referred to him, gave my mother a generous sum of money to help them on the rest of their journey.

Maman, how did you manage to sit through the drive from Germany to Iran while you were pregnant? I asked, amazed at her inner strength.

It was not easy, she replied. I asked your father to make numerous rest stops. We enjoyed the scenery immensely as we drove through various countries. It was quite pleasant at first. As we neared the border with Iran, it became increasingly more strenuous for me. The roads were mountainous and curvy. Many times I felt light-headed and nauseous due to the pregnancy. Your father was accustomed to driving ten to sixteen hours without a break. I recall vividly one night in which I beseeched him to make a pit stop, as I had to use the ladies’ room, and your father adamantly refused.

Papa! I confronted him. How could you not stop for Maman? Where was your compassion for your pregnant wife?

Papa looked at me and replied bluntly, If I had to do it again, I would not stop. It was a most dangerous terrain to drive through, especially at night. We were between the borders of Iran and Afghanistan. If our vehicle were spotted that late at night, we would be shot by the border soldiers, who would not bother to look inside to determine why we were on the road. I saved our life by continuously driving, he concluded. Better Maman should soil her clothing than we lose our lives.

I agreed with him wholeheartedly but knew Maman would never be caught dead in soiled clothing, as she was too much of a lady.

Nearly two months after they arrived in Tehran, my second brother, Robert (Farshad in Farsi), was born. He was born on November 28, 1965, two years to the day after my oldest brother was born. We celebrated their birthdays together on the same day—except the years of their bar mitzvah. Robert was born quite frail and would get sick often. Maman often recalls how she would pray to G-D to allow him to grow strong and healthy.

A contributing factor to Robert's poor health care was the fact that my parents had no money for a refrigerator. That meant they had to buy milk and other perishables daily. My father's relatives were also struggling at the time and could not help much financially. Maman laid blankets on the floor to walk on during the day, as the floors were made of stone and very cold. They could not afford to purchase a rug to keep it warm. Maman prioritized buying food for the family over everything else. Papa had grown up in poverty, and these years were a painful reminder to him of the Iran he had known. He often told us how he wore one pair of shoes till they were completely worn out. I should point out that history has a way of repeating itself. Due to the Islamic revolution in Iran, many today are living in poverty and misery as the country has turned into a third-world country once more.

Papa often told me every child is born with a loaf of bread under their arm: "Khoda bozorg ast."⁴ Papa recounted that with my birth, the luck of the family began to improve. Financially, they began to see positive changes. Maman recalled it wasn’t till my youngest brother, Raymond (Fardad in Farsi), was born that our financial situation changed drastically for the better. I often wondered if perhaps these are the reasons as to why Papa favored me and Maman favored my youngest brother. That is not to say that they didn’t love us all, but they did have definite favorites.

We all basked in the loving warmth of our parents despite the fact that they raised us strictly. We had plenty of rules to follow, yet Papa often said the true expression of love is setting boundaries for children. With proper boundaries, every person understands their intrinsic value and has enough self-esteem that they don’t need to be constantly looking at everyone else.

I often asked Papa why I couldn’t do what my brothers were doing—for example, stay up as late as them or go to the movies with my friends or come home as late as them. He always replied, Because you are Regine Monavar, and he is Robert Farshad. You are not him, and he is not you. You each have your own role in life to play. It took me years to truly understand what he meant. At the time, I did not like the answer and let him know it. We often went head-to-head on various matters. At times, Papa took the time to explain his reasoning to me. When I persisted too far, he would declare, That is my final answer, or I, your father, said so, do not ask again. He encouraged our curiosity but did not allow us to use it disrespectfully. Respect and honor are dominant themes in Middle Eastern culture.

4 Khoda bozorg ast G-D is big and provides sustenance for all-in Farsi

After living in Iran for a short period, my mother mastered the language of Farsi, and throughout our elementary and middle school years, she helped us read and write in this native tongue. My mother speaks and writes fluently in several languages, including English, French, German, Arabic, and Farsi. In my family, we always joke about how with all her language fluency she would be qualified to work in the Library of Congress in Washington, DC, rather than in the local library in Glen Cove, New York, where she worked till recently. My mother is a big believer in education, as was my father.

Throughout our school years, Maman tutored us in French and Farsi and later on in English in the United States. After Papa's passing, she learned various computer software programs. Inheriting this quality from her allows me to fearlessly learn new and challenging subjects with more ease. Over the years, I also expanded my knowledge in computer sciences and software programs as well as Judaic religious studies. My maternal grandmother, Frieda A"H, also enjoyed educating herself. When I slept over in her home in Brooklyn years later, I found her reading the French/English dictionary as a pastime. She often asked me to test her on the words.

My mother acclimated herself wherever she lived. In Iran, she was like a true Persian. Many of my father's friends could not believe how well my mother spoke Farsi despite not being born there. Maman has a unique blended accent. It is a mixture of all of the languages that she speaks fluently. Often people asked my father which outskirts of Tehran she was from, not quite recognizing the accent. When my father replied Beirut, they would all laugh.

Later on, when we lived in France, women thought she was native French. In the United States, only her accent gives her away as a nonnative. Her vocabulary and reading comprehension still exceed those of many people I know. My father often remarked how wise and beautiful my mother is. He always wished for me to be like her in that way. He often said she was so wise that she allowed him to think he was the wiser one in the family and never allowed him to feel less than her in intellect. He used to tell me that if I ended up marrying a man who is not on my level of intellect to never let him feel it. That is the sign of a truly wise person.

My father grew up in a home that valued education but did not have the money to send him abroad to learn. He managed to graduate high school and then left Iran for France to seek higher learning. He worked odd jobs as he learned dentistry. Many of his peers continued to call him Dr. Omid, although he never ended up practicing it.

Years later, after Papa's passing, Maman told me that to be a dentist in France, Papa had to be a French citizen. As for Iran, Papa did not practice dentistry there because the only dentist work he could find was outside Tehran. She did not want him living in a faraway town during the week and coming back on weekends only. Maman herself refused to move to a town because she was a city girl. A wife's place is next to her husband, Maman always emphasized that. Indeed, some men who worked in faraway towns during the week ended up with secondary wives and families in those towns.

Papa would often assist in another dentist's office for tasks such as analyzing x-rays. In the rare instance we needed a tooth pulled out, he would remove it for us. Other dentists had great respect for my father and charged us nominal fees, as that was a common courtesy between doctors or dentists. I once asked him why he did not continue being a dentist. He replied bluntly that he did not enjoy smelling people's breath. He always carried dry cloves rolled into a white handkerchief in his pocket to chew on to prevent bad breath. For him, no education was ever wasted. It was natural to change your career if circumstances require you to do so or if you change your mind about what you want to become.

By the time my mother married him, he was already a businessman. He loved the world of business, for he was a true entrepreneur. Papa was always looking for new and exciting ventures. Perhaps it is this very outlook that allowed him to live through so many ups and downs financially. He was at times dirt poor and other times affluent and so many times just getting by. He used to tell us that money comes and money goes. Health is the most important factor; as long as G-D gives one health, one can work and make money. That went along with his belief that holding any honest-paying job deserves respect, even if you are sweeping the floors of a store. These are the values I grew up with and hope to pass along to my own children.

Unlike my grandfather, Papa grew up under the new Pahlavi dynasty, which included the previous shah, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, and his father. Under Shah Pahlavi's reign, the status of Jews in Iran began to improve. This created new opportunities. The shah was told by his father that if he treated Jews well, Iran would prosper.

Jews were welcomed to work in all aspects of government. New educational reforms were implanted as a result. The new government did not emphasize the teachings of the sheikhs in schools—that is, the teachings of the Koran according to Shiite Islam. Secularism was introduced into the school curriculum under Shah Pahlavi and was further emphasized by his son Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi. Under this regime, the sheikhs no longer dictated policies of government and education. They remained powerful only in the towns and villages on the outskirts of Tehran.

Universities sprouted up, and tremendous construction projects began throughout Iran.