Taking Cover: One Girl's Story of Growing Up During the Iranian Revolution

Author’s Note

To write my story, I relied upon my personal memories and those of my parents. I have changed the names of all of the individuals in this book, and in some cases, I modified details to protect loved ones.

Note About Language

The narrative includes a crude insult, the word “whore,” which is used to frighten a teenage girl. This offensive word demonstrates part of the hostility the author experienced. It was included in the narrative to keep the authenticity of this true story.

Acknowledgments

My thanks to:

Lori Epstein, for taking a chance on her neighbor and handing my book proposal to the right people.

My wonderful editor, Martha E. Kendall, for her candid input and for always responding to my questions with so much patience and insight.

National Geographic, for providing me this platform.

Sheila M. Trask, for reading my story and telling me it had potential.

Everyone in my creative writing classes, and friends who read my manuscript and gave me their honest opinions about it.

My loving family.

Text Copyright © 2019 Nioucha Homayoonfar

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Hardcover ISBN: 9781426333668

Reinforced library binding ISBN: 9781426333675

Ebook ISBN 9781426333682

The publisher would like to thank the following people for their work on this book: Priyanka Lamichhane, senior editor; Julide Dengel, art director and designer; Dawn McFadin, designer; Lori Epstein, photo director; Molly Reid, production editor; and Anne LeongSon and Gus Tello, design production assistants.

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Dedication

To Maman and Baba, for giving me these stories

To Sophie and Sawyer, the loves of my life

To Stew, for always being there

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

FOREWORD by Firoozeh Dumas

CHAPTER 1: FURY, 1986 (Part 1)

CHAPTER 2: REVOLUTION, 1979

CHAPTER 3: ACTING, 1980

CHAPTER 4: RETREAT, Summer 1980

CHAPTER 5: REBELLION, 1980–1981

CHAPTER 6: WAR, 1981

CHAPTER 7: EXPECTATIONS, 1982

CHAPTER 8: SPACES, 1983

CHAPTER 9: HIDING, 1984

CHAPTER 10: LOVE, 1984

CHAPTER 11: FURY, 1986 (Part 2)

CHAPTER 12: DEPARTURE, 1987

AFTERWORD

Map

Timeline

Photo Gallery

Credits

FOREWORD

BY FIROOZEH DUMAS, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF FUNNY IN FARSI

High school was a pivotal time in my life, not for anything that happened at school, but for what happened on the other side of the world. Many evenings during my freshman year, I took my place on the sofa next to my parents as we watched the Iranian revolution unfold on the evening news. We lived in California, far away from the actual events, but we thought and spoke of nothing else. Still, if a fortune-teller had told us what the future held for Iran, we would have laughed in his face.

The Iran that we knew was a country with a cosmopolitan capital where women tried to emulate the latest European fashions, where the population was mostly secular, and where Jews, Christians, and Muslims co-existed peacefully. Women were making advancements in many fields, Iranian schools were producing world-renowned engineers and doctors, and more citizens than ever had access to educational opportunities.

Before 1979, most Iranians did not fathom that someday, women would no longer be allowed to serve as judges, that Western music would be banned, that women would be punished for showing strands of hair, that what happens socially in the privacy of your home, like dancing, could actually get you arrested. I still cannot believe that my favorite vacation spot as a child, the Caspian Sea, is now gender-segregated. How ridiculous is it that men and women can no longer enjoy the beach together?

Of course pre-revolutionary Iran had some very serious problems. We knew the shah’s government was corrupt and knew the profit from oil, the country’s main natural resource, did not go back to the people, but to the corrupt individuals with ties to the government. Members of the Bahá’í religion suffered for their beliefs. Iranians had little freedom of speech and the shah’s critics were silenced.

With the overthrow of the shah, we, like many Iranians, were cautiously optimistic. We hoped that a non-traditional leader, someone who was not a politician, would herald a new era for Iran, an era of democracy and economic fairness. Ironically the overthrowing of the shah did not solve Iran’s issues. The Iran of today has even more problems, and a society with far fewer rights.

Books like this, Nioucha Homayoonfar’s Taking Cover, provide such an important and necessary window into the complexities of this country. Told from the point of view of a young French-Iranian girl coming of age in Iran, her story shows the changes, both big and small, that slowly became a way of life, forming the Iran that exists today. Her simple observations effectively yet powerfully illustrate how the Iran that she knew, the Iran that I knew, disappeared, bit by bit. Her descriptions of the changes in her school alone speak volumes about the opportunities afforded to Iran’s youth before and after the revolution and why so many Iranians now live in exile. More important, her story shows us why those of us living in exile continue to love our culture and our people, why we do our best to hang on to our memories, our language, our music, and our recipes.

Nioucha’s colorful story will inevitably surprise many readers who do not visualize pre-revolutionary Tehran as a vibrant and international city, a city where John Travolta’s dance moves were attempted by every teen with Saturday night fever and where the search for the latest and trendiest American tennis shoes was a serious venture. But there is an even more important reason to read Taking Cover. Even though readers will be entertained by Nioucha’s memoir, I hope they will also ponder the vital underlying question: Can my freedoms be taken away? Does radical change always require a violent revolution or can rights be taken away slowly and silently?

I hope Nioucha’s book will be discussed in schools, at home, and in book clubs across America. As Coretta Scott King so affectingly said, “Freedom is never really won. You earn it and win it in every generation.”

—Firoozeh Dumas

Firoozeh Dumas is the author of the New York Times best sellers Funny in Farsi and Laughing Without an Accent, and the award-winning It Ain’t So Awful, Falafel. She has also written articles for the New York Times, covering topics on her life as an Iranian-born woman raised in America. For more information, visit firoozehdumas.com.

CHAPTER 1

FURY

1986 (PART 1)

Javabe ablahan khamooshist.

— Persian proverb

Silence is the best answer to fools.

I knew I was in trouble when the white jeep made a U-turn. Driven by the Zeinab Sisters (or the Black Crows, as I called them), it raced toward me and screeched to a stop.

My mother was pushing my little brother in a stroller. She had already crossed the street, but I’d lagged behind. So when the “Moral Police” pulled in front of me, I was all alone. Their job was to ensure that women and girls dressed in the manner dictated by Islam. To set an example, these four were covered head to toe in black chadors, and some of them even wore gloves.

The Black Crow sitting in the back seat jumped out and grabbed my arm without saying a word. I caught my mother’s eye just as I was being pushed inside the jeep. Maman stood helplessly, screaming across the traffic for the Crows to let me go.

Alarmed by her yells and frantic gestures, a few passersby stared at the jeep. Through the window I saw my brother look up at Maman. His lower lip quivered, a sure sign he was about to cry.

The jeep just peeled away. “What is this?” Backseat Crow asked, pointing to my neck.

It was such a hot summer day that I had undone one of the top buttons of my navy robe. Wearing dark colors in the heat didn’t help. A small triangle of neck showed, which of course they considered blasphemous. I automatically buttoned the top button and positioned my scarf to hide my neck.

“That’s better,” she said. “But what’s this?”

My sleeves were rolled up a bit. She jabbed her finger toward the three inches of my arms that were exposed above my wrists. Clearly she believed that much flesh would be too much temptation for a man. I unrolled my sleeves.

“Haven’t you girls learned anything yet?” Backseat Crow yelled. “How many times do we have to arrest you before you understand how to appear in public? What kind of a Muslim woman are you? Have you no modesty?”

The two front seat Crows sniggered. I lowered my eyes and folded my hands in my lap. I knew better than to argue. Getting hauled off in their car was a very bad sign. I wasn’t about to worsen my situation by being the usual smart aleck I had been at school.

“We’re about to teach you a lesson you won’t soon forget,” she continued. “Maybe then you’ll respect the laws of Islam.”

I nervously watched out the window to see where they were taking me. We drove by the man selling watermelons from his green pickup truck near Vanak Square. Baba often bought one from him on his way home from work. Pedestrians weaved through heavy traffic, and Driver Crow lay her hand on the horn like all the other drivers were doing. For me, this din from the street was nothing new, but I’d never heard such a roar in my ears as my blood was pulsing while my heart pounded.

“How old are you anyway?” Frontseat Crow said.

“I’m fifteen.”

“It’s time for you to be married,” she said. “Otherwise, you’ll get yourself in a lot of trouble. An insolent girl like you will soon bring shame to her family.”

“Was that foreign-looking woman across the street your mother?” Driver Crow asked, glaring at me in the rearview mirror. “The one with the little boy in the stroller? Her scarf barely covered her blond hair.”

“Yes. That was my mother.”

The thought of Maman and Nima made me want to cry.

“Where is she from?” Driver Crow asked.

“She is from France.”

“That explains it!” Backseat Crow said. “All Western women are whores. And you are the child of a whore. No wonder you prance around the streets baring your whole body for every man to see.”

All the Crows laughed.

We reached Shahrak, a neighborhood where many houses and buildings were under construction. It couldn’t have taken us more than 10 minutes to get there, but it felt like hours. I knew this area because my father had driven us around here. Baba thought it would be nice for our family to move to this developing part of Tehran.

The jeep turned into a deserted street with several cement trucks and cranes parked along the side. Driver Crow slowed down.

“Which one was it again?” she squawked.

“The brick one on the right, with the brown garage door.”

We pulled into an apartment building garage. There were no other cars.

Backseat Crow pushed me out of the jeep and led me up one flight of stairs. The smell of fresh paint made me light-headed. The hallway windows still had adhesive tape to prevent the glass from shattering. It dawned on me that nobody was around, neither in this building nor in neighboring ones. Being midday, the construction workers must have been either napping at home or having lunch breaks off-site.

One of the Crows knocked on a door and a new Black Crow opened it.

“We have another one,” Backseat Crow said. “Is the room free?”

“Yes.”

Backseat Crow pulled me inside. The apartment was empty except for some white metal garden furniture in the center of the living room. The large window to the right of the doorway was covered with thick black curtains, slightly open at the center. It was so bright outside that the whole room was illuminated by that narrow slit.

My eyes scanned the room for any signs of torture devices. Nothing. I could smell tea from a samovar in the kitchen to the left. From behind, someone pushed me into one of the hard metal chairs. The same person then dug her hands into both my arms with such force that my fingers tingled from the lack of circulation.

Three Black Crows entered the living room and sat at the table. I didn’t recognize any of them from the car. They must have already been in the apartment. Invisible Crow kept me pinned in place.

“What’s your name?” Crow No. 1 asked.

“Nioucha.”

“Nioucha?” Crow No. 2 repeated.

“Yes.”

“Do you know what your name means?” she asked. Invisible Crow dug deeper into my arms.

“No.”

I stared at the table. Of course I knew the meaning of my name, but I didn’t want to have a conversation with them.

“‘Nioucha’ means someone who listens.” I was surprised she knew this. Very few people knew the origin or meaning of my name. “Are you a good listener?”

“I try.”

I barely recognized my own voice. The three Black Crows from the car entered the room.

“You should have seen how she was walking in the streets,” Backseat Crow said. She joined the others around the table. “Everything was out for the whole world to see!”

I stared harder at the table. My arms felt bloated, like a million ants had crawled under my skin and were struggling to find a way out.

“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” Crow No. 1 said. I looked at her. I was surprised to see how pretty she was, especially her long eyelashes.

“No.”

“What?” It was Frontseat Crow. “We can’t hear you!”

“No, I don’t.” I tried to keep my voice steady.

“Let’s lock her up for a while,” Crow No. 2 said. “We’ll decide later what to do with her.”

“Wait!” I said.

“What?”

“Can I call my mother?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No! No calls are allowed,” Backseat Crow said.

Invisible Crow released her grip on my arms. Instantly, the ants scattered. Crow No. 1 dragged my chair aside with such force that I was nearly flung forward. She punched my arm as a signal for me to get up. I did. She pushed me and I fell across the table. Everyone laughed.

“Put her in the back room,” said Crow No. 2, the one with the really raspy voice. “I have someone else in the front room.”

I pulled myself off the table. Backseat Crow took my wrist and yanked me to a room at the end of the hall. She opened the door and shoved me inside.

“Make yourself at home,” she said.

She closed the door. I heard her lock it and remove the key. I glanced at my watch: 4:37 p.m. I rubbed my arms where I could feel the fingernail indentations through my sleeves. I looked around the bare room. The walls were white, with dirty finger marks everywhere. Black curtains covered a small window, and a bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling. I pulled the curtains aside to discover that the window was barred. I tried to open it for some air, but it was sealed shut with tar. Looking out across the dirt road, all I could see was a building still under construction.

The room smelled of stale urine and sweat. The floor was carpeted, light gray with dark stains. I gagged. My legs almost gave way, but I didn’t want to sit down and absorb a stranger’s urine. I didn’t even want to lean on the walls; the finger marks were disgusting. I hovered near the window, my hands in my pockets.

I thought about Maman, and immediately tears welled up in my eyes. I knew how sick with worry she must be. But I wasn’t going to cry here. That’s what they wanted, and I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Those pathetic people. How could showing a bit of my neck and arm make me a whore?

What had happened to the Iran I had loved so much?

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