Defiance
A Chronicle of Courage
By Chance DeWitt
Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2011 by Chance DeWitt Inc.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book with someone else, please purchase an additional copy for them. 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.
All rights reserved. Chance DeWitt, Inc.
Forward
This is a true story. The names of some of the characters have been changed to protect their lives and property. It is a story of one woman’s courage, perseverance and honor, both inborn and acquired. It is a chronicle of virtues we all pursue but seldom, if ever, fully achieve.
But what begets her display of courage is perhaps a greater cause for reflection. The governments of two countries—Iran and the United States—worlds apart in ideology but almost identical in effect, sadly became the catalyst for her unfolding struggle to survive.
We can all learn from Zahra. Not what it takes to muster the resolve to resist, but of what we should heed in the despotic direction of governments in general. We must not be so intrigued by Zahra’s courage that we disregard its pernicious genesis.
Chapter One
It was unusually chilly for a September morning, a precursor of what was to unfold. The dark shadow of Sonoma Mountain began to melt into the foothills as the morning sun peeked over the summit. A cascade of the new day’s light splashed against the green shuttered windows of the white, plantation-style home sequestered among the oaks and bay trees. But it was not the sun’s morning greeting that awakened her as she rolled over to touch the now cold side of the bed where her husband had laid just an hour before. It was shattering wood, cracking in a staccato-like cadence as it hit the pavement in the otherwise soundless air. Was someone cutting a tree down? Where was the antecedent howl of a chain saw? Then she heard the roar of an engine, or maybe two and abruptly sat up. As she crawled out of bed searching for a robe to cloak her half-naked body, the strident shouts of several men and the exploding crash of the downstairs entry doors trumpeted the onslaught. A stampede of boots stomping up the marble stairs reminded her of a giant centipede coming for her.
Before she could reach her robe, the bedroom door burst open, and three helmeted men, garbed in black military uniforms, aimed their automatic weapons at her. One of the storm troopers lurched forward and flung her onto the cold marble floor. He put a boot on her shoulders, smashing her face into the floor and warned her not to move as he held his rifle to her head.
“Zahra Gilak?” he snarled like a wolf ready to pounce.
“What do you want?” came the rebellious reply from the small body lying on the floor in a silk teddy now bunched around her stomach.
“Are you Zahra Gilak?” he sneered.
“I am. What do you want? Who are you?” she managed to ask in spite of the ever increasing pressure of the boot on her back. She turned her head sideways and saw three others in uniform aiming their weapons at her. Without responding to her, he violently twisted her arms behind her back, as her face crushed against the cold stone below her. The assailant gripped her forearm and manacled her with a handcuff. A sharp pain shot through her right shoulder, broken years age in an auto accident He repeated the same procedure with her left arm, but she refused to scream in pain or even give any indication that she was terrified and hurting. She had been the victim of government terror before and knew that any sign of fear only increased the likelihood of further abuse by those who had had the propensity to do so.
Without answering her question, he yelled at her, “Stand up!”
As she struggled to rise, two sets of arms abruptly jerked her up. Still, no one said a thing. In other rooms of the house, she heard the sounds of shouting, doors banging and the constant reverberation of boots on the marble floors.
As her captor began to shackle her ankles, she heard her daughter, Maryam, scream.
“You can’t do this!” Maryam yelled. “I’m an attorney and this is completely uncalled for.”
“I don’t care if you’re the Pope,” came back a mocking shout, “stay in that room or I’ll arrest you for obstruction of justice and conspiracy. We have a warrant.”
“Let’s see it,” Maryam demanded.
No one replied as the marauding squad of over twenty intruders continued their rampage throughout the house.
“You’re the Department of Justice?” Maryam continued to shout. “What an oxymoron. You wouldn’t know justice if it bit you in the ass.”
She was shoved back into the room by two of the intruders.
Zahra’s focus on her daughter was disrupted by the warm breath of the man shackling her. He was spending far too much time squatting in front of her, his mouth only inches from her uncovered pubic area. As she read the loud yellow letters, “FBI”, emblazoned on his dark vest, she realized most people were shackeled from behind. Enjoying the scenery, his helmet grazed her pubic hair several times. Finally, out of earshot of his cohorts, he muttered, “Nice bush,” smirking as he breathed out.
“Get your face away from there!” she shrieked indignantly as she kicked her left knee forward. She would have caught him squarely in the face if the chains on her hobbled ankles had not pulled tightly from her motion and pitched her backwards. With her hands cuffed behind her, she was unable to break the fall and toppled towards the floor. She tried to twist sideways to use her shoulder for cushioning but the unforgiving floor came up too soon. She heard a thud, felt a smothering sensation and then everything went black. She did not move.
She wasn’t aware that she had lost consciousness because the pain in her head seemed to have remained with her from the time her head had slammed to the floor. Yet she couldn’t explain how there had been just the one captor and now five or six stood there like a group of surreal heads floating above her, seemingly miles away. Some of them had removed their face shields and she could see groups of eyes staring at her with looks of concern—not for her, but how they could explain her fall to their superiors.
“Resisting arrest,” she heard some fuzzy voice say in the anonymous crowd.
She felt a blanket over her. Certainly she didn’t remember that.
“She’s come to now,” one of them said in a coldly indifferent tone. No one asked how she was feeling. Downstairs, she could hear the sound of dishes clanking, tables being shoved across the room, and the muffled thunks of sofa pads hitting the floor. Someone was shouting about rolling up the Persian rugs that appointed the house’s marble floors. From the kitchen came sounds of drawers being opened and their contents spilled on the floor. It was as if a platoon of madmen had been unleashed to plunder and pillage her home. The clamor was punctuated by the incessant sound of the intruders’ trampling boots blitzing through her home as if they feared their prey would soon vanish. It was orchestrated chaos.
Her head throbbed with a dull pain that fogged her thoughts. As she staggered to stand up, her preoccupation with the pandemonium in her home abruptly ended when the cinching metal restraints rudely reminded her that she was no longer free to move. She stumbled, but regained her balance, quickly adapting to her bondage.
“Guess we should let her get dressed before taking her away,” one of her captors grunted as if she were not there. The one that had cuffed her smiled , muttering, “Yeah, probably not a good idea to advertise all that bush.” Several of the group laughed. The handcuffer walked around behind her and grabbed her ample breasts and squeezed. Then he uncuffed her hands. Zahra turned to slap him and someone grabbed her hand.
“Bill, that’s enough of that,” came the voice of someone who was obviously in command.
“Just making sure she’s not hiring any weapons in those boobs,” Bill laughed. “Maybe I should do a body cavity search also.”
The man holding her hand said nothing, but when he released his grip, Zahra slapped Bill with a loud crack.
“You bitch,” he said as he shoved her, still shackled, to the floor. This time, her restrained hands could not break the fall.
“That’s enough, Bill,” the man said, this time with more intensity.
“Did you see that? She hit me,” Bill whined.
“I didn’t see anything.” Then he looked at the other men, “Did you gentlemen see anything?”
They looked away.
In spite of his apparent gallantry, he did not allow Zahra to dress alone. No woman was among the troop of invaders, so he stood in the large master bathroom as Zahra hurriedly put on her panties, a bra, an electric blue jogging suit and a pair of white Keds. As she dressed, he made no attempt to avert his eyes and insisted that she face him. She put on no makeup but in the mirror she could see a large bluish knot on the right side of her forehead. That’s going to be quite a bruise, she said to herself as she touched the tender area. Once she was dressed, he recuffed her and shackled her, this time from behind.
“I guess there’s nothing much to see now,” Zahra said defiantly. She sensed the leader was concerned about the possible repercussions if she talked and, more importantly, could prove what had happened in her arrest, but he said nothing. There were no witnesses. It was her word against six of his men, twenty, if necessary.
“What is this all about? Why are you searching my home?” Zahra asked, still defiant, with her resolve only heightened by what had just happened. No one said a word. Zahra repeated her questions, this time even louder. Finally, a man about forty-five years of age with dark hair, graying at the temples, a hawkish angular face and black angry eyes stepped toward her.
“We have a warrant to arrest you on charges of securities fraud and we also have a warrant to search your home for jewelry that might have been purchased with the proceeds from illegal sales of stock.”
Zahra immediately recognized his voice with that slight mid-eastern accent. It was the voice of the FBI Agent Ben Amadolan, to whom she had spoken several times by telephone during this past year. Amadolan was a Palestinian Jew who seemed to carry a grudge against Muslims in general. He had admitted to Zahra that it was his mission to put as many Muslims behind bars as he could. “They are a bunch of no good, lying, dishonest camel jockeys who have no right to inhabit this planet,” he had pontificated. She wasn’t sure if he knew that she herself was Muslim, but he had warmed up to her after she had told him that she had journeyed to Haifa in 1976 and had found it to be “one of the most beautiful cities in the world.” However, when she had added that her visit originated from her home in Tehran, he became chillingly silent. After asking her if she was among the many Jews who lived in Iran, because she had told him that she had arranged bar mitzvahs for many of her Jewish friends, she replied that she was not. Abruptly he ended the conversation and never spoke to her again until today.
“You know, Mr. Amadolan, we hired attorneys almost a year ago when the investigation began,” Zahra said to him.
He was obviously surprised that she had recognized him.
“We told the U.S. Attorney’s office that if it became necessary we would peacefully turn ourselves in. It hardly seems necessary to send in a gang of thugs like this to crash through our doors and drag me out of bed as they point their automatic rifles at me. I guess that with my threatening height of 5’1”, I was a physical menace to all your big husky agents—all twenty plus of them.”
“We’ll decide what’s necessary,” he sneered, his accent thicker. “I think you need to be taught a lesson as to who is really in control around here.”
As Zahra was unceremoniously herded down the curved stairway into the foyer below, she could hear Maryam screaming, “What are you doing? My mother has done nothing wrong! She has done nothing wrong!”
They were words Zahra had heard before in another place in another time.
As she continued down the stairs, she was confronted by a flurry of activity, agents still scurrying about in a frenetic search, dumping out drawers, cutting seat cushions in the antique couches and chairs, tossing books off the library shelves onto the floor. In less than thirty minutes, she observed the horde of those “enforcing” the law had ransacked her home with such dispatch that Genghis Khan himself would have been pleased. What Zahra didn’t know that it would be another twelve hours before the twenty-two agents left logging about $50,000 worth of jewelry on their report. What they would neglect to account for and what disappeared forever after their “search” was some $250,000 worth of ancient Persian jewelry, family heirlooms dating back hundreds of years, Zahra had kept with her under intensely trying circumstances.
Those who searched were clever. They knew that no receipts could be provided for the heirlooms and hence were untraceable. Zahra could not prove that she had the jewelry or what it was worth, let alone that they had stolen it. To a person, the agents would lie under oath that they had not taken it. Zahra could not prove otherwise. After all, who would believe someone charged with a crime of securities fraud? The only legacy of significance that she saved for her children disappeared in the raid. But Zahra did not know this as she hobbled to the bottom of the stairs.
She was quickly led through the shattered double entry doors, minutes before a highly polished walnut, but now not much more than scattered splinters among shards of glass. Once outside, she peered across the expansive front lawn and beautiful landscaping and discovered what all the noise outside was about. Five SUVs, along with a white, windowless van had crashed through the first gate of their quarter mile U-driveway, obliterating the white picketed gate that served to keep the uninvited from entering the promises.
Methodically and slowly, so that the few gawking neighbors could observe the full force of the law raining down upon her, she was escorted to the van. In view of the public, the agents now feigned concern, helping her into the van, shielding her bruised forehead from any slight bump against the door jamb.
The van pulled out, driving back toward the splintered picket gate scattered in broken pieces on the driveway and lawn by the impact of their intrusion . As the driver sped over some of the remains of the destroyed gate Zahra said, “You know, you didn’t need to crash the gate. At the other end of the U-drive, the gate was not only unlocked, but open. Anyone who knows us comes through that entrance.”
In the front passenger seat, the agent who had originally handcuffed her turned around with a snicker, “We’re like Frank Sinatra. We do it our way.”
“I don’t think a sand nigger like her even knows who Frank Sinatra was,” the driver laughed.
Zahra, straining to control a response, sat back and said nothing, gazing at the onset of the fall colors in the Acacia trees lining the road. She reflected on times past, of memories not distant enough, before this government had intruded into her life with the force and impunity of today.
Chapter Two
In 1955, the city of Tehran was undergoing staggering change. Nestled in the fertile foothills of the Elbuaz Mountains and only sixty-two miles from the shores of the Caspian Sea, it has for centuries been one of the jewels of Iran. With its two rivers, the Jazrud and the Kaja flanking the ancient city’s boundaries, it was a natural site for human habitation. A venerable city, whose name in ancient Persian means “warm place”, its origins extend back to Rayy, a bustling metropolis where Alexander the Great (referred to as only “Alexander” by the Iranians) bivouacked in 330 B.C. while pursuing the Persian ruler, Darius.
Although named the capital of Persia in 1788 by Agha Mohammed Khan, the founder of the Quajar Dynasty, it was not until the reign of Reza Shan Pahlavi in 1925 that the Terhan began to flourish. To accommodate a booming petroleum industry, his son, Mohammed Reza Shah Pahlavi, who ruled from 1941 to 1979, rapidly modernized the city with wide, tree-lined streets, Western-style apartment buildings and choking automobile traffic. From 1955 until the Shah’s overthrow in 1979, the city’s population burgeoned from 500,000 to over 5,000,000. Tehran was truly a blend of the modern and the ancient.
Among those who took advantage of the explosive growth was Nasser Rahimzadeh, whose family had emigrated from the Caspian Sea area of Azerbijan to Tehran over a century earlier. An imposing man, who parlayed his strength and massive 6’6” frame into a national wrestling championship in the heavyweight division, he was noticed by the Shah’s staff and engaged as one of his bodyguards. Before long it was obvious that Nasser’s intelligence matched his brawn and he was sent to Princeton University to study engineering as a part of the Shah’s program to Westernize and modernize Iran. Nasser graduated from Princeton with degrees in both engineering and architecture. Not surprisingly, others often observed that he, himself, was an impressive example of human engineering and architecture.
Upon his return to Iran, he was conscripted into the Iranian Army and quickly rose to the level of Lieutenant. Ironically, the uniforms of Iran’s Army were copied exactly from those of the U.S. Army, so dedicated was the Shah then to Westernize Iran and curry favor with the United States.
Nasser continued his assignment as a member of the Shah’s elite bodyguard squad, but he also taught mathematics to civilians as part of the Pahlavi’s program to interact with and educate the people of Iran. One of Nasser’s students was a striking but petite, honey-blond woman named Noori nestled in the back corner of the room. From the first time he saw her, he was unable to take his eyes off her, distracted to such a point that other students became embarrassed for him. Noori couldn’t help but notice the attention she received and became withdrawn and self-conscious to such an extent she quit class after attending only three days.
But Nasser would not accept her absence and pursued her to her home in the southern area of Tehran. When he knocked on the door, he was met by a small but dignified woman who told him that she was Noori’s mother and demanded to know what his intentions were.
Nasser, not known for publicizing his feelings in words, blurted, “I am here to talk to your daughter. From the first time I saw her face, her piercing eyes and her beautiful hair, I knew that I must have this woman as my wife. But I also knew that the feeling I have for her will have to be mutual if we are to be happy in our lives. I am here to let her get to know me, to find out who Nasser Rahimzadeh is and to convince her that we can be happy together in this life and the next.”
Perhaps it was the sincerity and vulnerability that Nasser radiated, perhaps it was his sad but resolute eyes, or his distinguished yet accommodating stature, but the older lady knew that he was a man of principle, of commitment and of honor. She nodded to him and invited him to come in.
Once inside, Nasser saw a home that spoke volumes. It was neat, clean, not elaborate but reflective of the pedigree of one who once had wealth. The older woman extended her hand and spoke.
“I am Mahdi Shebani, Noori’s mother. Please sit down and we will talk.” Her tone was firm but friendly almost as if she knew that Nasser was the man for her daughter. Over naan, a Persian flat bread, and several cups of tea poured into antique china from a golden samovar, the two talked for almost two hours. Noori did not appear.
Nasser talked of his family history, his great-grandfather’s move from the shores of the Caspian Sea to start a new life in Tehran, the merchant rug business of his grandfather, passed on to his younger brother when Nasser was summoned by the Shah’s staff to guard him. He spoke of his dreams to stay in the Army and become a general, but also, with the army’s permission, to engage in the business of architecture and engineering, to bring buildings out of the ground for people to live in, and to develop great commercial centers for people to buy almost anything that this earth provides. Finally, he talked of his dreams of having a large family, to share his life with a loving and supportive wife, and to laugh at the gray hair, flabby skin wrinkles that would insinuate themselves into their later lives.
Mahdi, responding to Nasser’s straightforward manner, and admiring the courage that it must have taken to be so frank, shared with Nasser some of her family’s history. She and the Shah had the same great-grandparents, but her grandfather had angered the family with his independent spirit and his desire to see the world. The long term results were loss of most of the family legacy. She, herself, was unconcerned with wealth, having worked in the State Department of Iran since a girl of eighteen. During the years, she rose through the ranks to become second only to the political appointee State Department Chief, where she still held that position.
“It is quite an accomplishment, especially in those times, for a woman,” Nasser observed.
“Yes, it was,” Mahdi said, dispensing with any false modesty. “Our family has always had independent women and we value our independence,” she added, scrutinizing Nasser for any signs of resentment. She inwardly smiled as she saw none. Then she continued, “I was divorced after Noori was born. I refused to put up with the abuse many Iranian men inflict upon their wives. Not so much physical, but the mental abuse that comes with their concept of marriage—a man owns his wife, she is nothing more than a possession …. Do you share that belief Mr. Rahimzadeh?”
Nasser looked at her, perplexed, almost as if embarrassed. “Anything I say to you, Mrs. Shebani, would only be words. Those who know me understand that I regard women as equals, but yet I feel the obligation to protect women from those who might try to harm them physically. Just last week, one of my soldiers, a brash private, was bragging about how he had beat his wife because she refused to wear her veil in public. In front of my squadron, I asked him if it was true. When he said ‘yes’, I smacked him with my open hand on the side of the face. He took three of his teeth home in an envelope that night.”
“But weren’t you reprimanded by your superiors?” a wide-eyed Mahdi asked.
“None of my men said a thing. Least of all, the one I hit. If I am disciplined, I don’t care. None of my men will be bullies. A bully does not make a good soldier. Deep down a bully is no more than a coward.”
They continued to talk for another thirty minutes when Mahdi seemed to grow silent and concerned. “Now, Nasser,” she said, “I need to tell you something. As I mentioned, the women of our family are independent and refuse to accept abuse. Noori is no different.”
“But, I think you know I would not abuse her,” he interrupted defensively.
“Let me finish, please,” she requested, as she held up her hand. “Noori, too, had an abusive husband. At first, we all loved him. He was as beautiful as a Greek god. He came from a wealthy family and said all the right things. But he became a monster, possessive, demanding and jealous. And he was unfaithful. Noori would not put up with it and she divorced him.”
“That’s not a problem for me,” Nasser said.
“But there’s more …. Noori was pregnant at the time of the divorce. She later gave birth to a beautiful baby girl who we named Zahra. Is that a problem for you?” Mahdi said as she drilled Nasser with her hazel eyes.
Nasser didn’t flinch. He didn’t hesitate. “Not only is it no problem. It’s a blessing. I will have a little daughter right away and won’t have to wait to start a family.” He smiled as he looked at Mahdi.
She was now convinced that he was a rare and priceless specimen of humanity.
“Let me get Noori for you,” Mahdi whispered as tears glazed her eyes with restrained optimism. Noori had listened to the entire two hour conversation as Zahra, her nine month old daughter slept. In class, she had felt Nasser’s glances protracting into stares, uncomfortable, yet exciting. No doubt she found him attractive but hesitated to acknowledge his appeal. Such a man as Nasser, she reasoned, with his ambition and potential would not be interested in a woman with her past. It was a scenario that could only end in heartbreak.
Now Nasser’s efforts at finding her home, here where she was ensconced with her mother suggested something else. The past hours’ dialogue with Mahdi convinced her that he was truly a remarkable man, interested in her as a life partner. She smiled, secretly thanking her mother for her courage in welcoming this man in a home where no man resided and then deftly but gently pressing him to reveal himself. Just then, Zahra awoke and Noori picked her up from the white wicker crib. She whimpered almost inaudibly and snuggled against her mother’s shoulder. Noori knew it was now time to confront Nasser with the reality of her motherhood. With resolve only slightly diminished by a controlled uneasiness, she walked into the living room with Zahra in her arms and approached Nasser.
Without hesitation, she looked up at him and said, “Mr. Rahimzadeh, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Zahra.”
Nasser looked down at Noori. She’s hardly more than a child herself, he thought. He smiled as his eyes darted from Noori’s to those of the now wide awake baby she held.
Zahra looked up at the titan towering over her diminutive, sixteen year old mother and smiled. Tears welled in Nasser’s eyes as he reached toward the infant.
“May I hold her? She’s so beautiful,” he said in an uncharacteristically trembling voice. Without saying a word, Noori handed her to him. Zahra cuddled against the big man. His massive hand almost completely enveloped her like a protective shield. He looked down at her and began to sing an ancient Persian song. Zahra smiled and made little noises as if she were singing along. Noori and Mahdi looked at each other in amazement. Little Zahra had never let anyone but the two of them hold her. Now, there she was, cooing contentedly as this giant stood before them gently holding her to his chest. No one said anything for a moment. Nasser finally spoke.
“She’s beautiful, with a beautiful name, Zahra, ‘desert flower’. She certainly is one.”
Noori then took Zahra from Nasser’s arms, telling him that it was time to feed her. As she walked with the baby into the privacy of the bedroom to nurse her, Noori saw Nasser’s face. It looked as if a little part of his life had left him.
“She’ll be back, Nasser. We still have much to talk about.”
Nasser looked relieved and accepted another cup of tea.
***
Later that evening, Noori and Mahdi giggled and laughed like two little girls. They both knew that Nasser was a rare coin; a priceless find that would make a wonderful husband and, more importantly, a caring father.
“Nasser,” she had asked. “Do you think you will have any trouble loving Zahra as your own? Do you think you will treat her as your real daughter?”
Nasser smiled, a trace of pique flushing over his face. “Noori, my love, Zahra is a part of you. It doesn’t matter to me that my blood does not run through her veins. Yours does and that is enough. Any dog can father offspring. It takes a real man to be a father. It is a father who instills courage in his child, courage to encounter challenges with grace and determination, courage to pursue the unfamiliar and journey into the unrevealed and obscure, courage to persevere against daunting odds, courage to continue to seek victory even after many defeats, the courage to acknowledge one’s limitations and accept them. Courage dispels insecurity and promotes a confidence that does not bloat into arrogance. It takes real courage to show compassion, to love unconditionally and endure rejection. Courage is what gives the human spirit the desire to seek good.
“I will try to give that courage to Zahra and to all my children, if we have more. That is truly a father’s gift and that is what will make me truly Zahra’s father.”
Noori said nothing, but only silently sobbed. Two weeks later, they were married in a quiet ceremony.
Chapter Three
By 1965, Nasser Rahimzadeh had begun to make his mark. His military career had continued to blossom, largely as a result of his integrity, honesty, work ethic and intelligence. He was now a colonel, well respected by both those he commanded and those he reported to.
He was a model of discipline and honor, giving any man who hit a woman a taste of his own medicine. Fortunately, Nasser’s zero tolerance approach and the threat of emergency dental work kept the physical abuse of wives and girlfriends to a minimum. If anything, his attitude toward women was supported by the times. The Shah had continued his pro-Western transformation of Iran which included involving women in the democratization process through education and voting rights. In 1965, Iran had the highest percentage of literate women in the world, outside of the United States.
Because of his athleticism as a wrestler and basketball player, Nasser was appointed as the manager of the Iranian basketball team, another attempt by the Shah to Westernize Iran. With this position he could travel throughout the world. His affable nature, if not his stature, forced people into liking him. He always had a good story or a good joke for any occasion. In his travels, he met and dined with such notable world leaders as Mao Tse Sung, Charles de Gaulle and Conrad Adanauer. His teams were good, not great, but always gracious in both defeat and victory. His travels opened him up to worlds he had never known—high ranking men of power, wealthy men and devious men, men of all religions and political beliefs. From each visit, he took away a little knowledge and respect for the culture of others and developed a regard and tolerance for all peoples of the world.
It was only after he became a colonel in 1965 that he ceased his duties as a bodyguard of the Shah. His mass, temperament, courage and integrity made him a desired protector, but as a colonel, it would be considered beneath his rank to be a bodyguard. It was with great reluctance that the Shah released him from his duties.
His release from extra duty as a bodyguard gave him additional time to devote to his private business endeavors. Every afternoon at three o’clock, he would arrive home, put on his newly pressed business attire and walk to his office to work on his developing projects. With his educational background in both engineering and architecture, his entry into the field of land and property development in the growing Tehran was only natural. The Shah’s emphasis on the westernization of Iran with Tehran as the nexus of such undertaking meant that thousands of people every week moved into Tehran from the rural areas seeking the employment and the fortune that its growth promised. Nasser saw the opportunity to cash in on that growth.
Mahdi’s father, Nader Ali Noranyi, had come to love Nasser as a son, a son he never had, and Nasser, in turn, considered him the father he had lost when he was just a child of eight. Noranyi had saved a few hundred thousand dollars and suggested that he give it to Nasser to begin his development career. At first, Nasser refused, feeling that business transactions with family members usually led to disaster, but Nader persisted.
When Nasser discovered a promising parcel of land that would likely increase in value at very little risk to Noranyi, he agreed to use the money to make the purchase. In one year, the property had tripled in price. Nasser sold it, repaid Nader his investment plus fifty percent of the profit and used his undistributed portion to buy some more land. He continued to repeat the process, involving Nader’s money only when the transaction had minimal risk. Nasser didn’t need the money but felt a loyalty to the man who had helped him take the first step on his pathway to a fortune.
Nasser then began to build small apartment houses, something new to Tehran but lucrative projects in the U.S. He would find a parcel of land, in a few months sell a portion of it for a 100% profit, then use the proceeds to build an apartment house of thirty to forty units. Sometimes he would convince the person to whom he had sold the parcel to engage him to build an apartment on the portion of the parcel he had just sold. Often the price of land would escalate so rapidly that he would just buy land one week and sell it at a profit several weeks later.
Other ventures included small shopping malls and the purchase of large tracts of land on the outskirts of Tehran in the path of growth. He held these less than two years and quadrupled his money.
Later, he partnered with Amir Yazdoni, a small wiry man who, standing next to Nasser, seemed to be even shorter than his 5’5” height would suggest. Yazdoni, twenty-five years Nasser’s elder, had been a goat herder as a child and only matriculated to the third grade. In spite of his modest background, he possessed a foresight and smell for a deal that was unmatched by anyone Nasser knew. When he met Nasser in 1963, Yazdoni had amassed a small fortune which he suggested could be transformed into a large fortune with Nasser’s education and business contacts. It was then that Nasser hit the big time, building large regional malls, office buildings and housing projects. By 1979, he owned over 3,500 parcels of land and buildings including a 1,000 acre aquaculture farm producing shrimp and a 50,000 acre orange grove supplying the bulk of the retail citrus needs for Iran.
In spite of the demands of his business, Nasser did not forget his duties as a husband and a father. Within ten years after he married her, Noori had given birth to two sons. Nader and Navid, and one daughter, Ziba. Each child he said was a precious gift from God and he vowed to give them all that a father could, not the least of which was his time and his love.
In spite of the new additions to the family, Nasser never neglected Zahra. In many ways, Zahra was closest to him of all the children and she reciprocated with loyalty and attentiveness. From the time she was a mere four years of age, she insisted on pressing his military uniform each night and laying it out on his clothes valet for the next morning’s foray into his military duties.
Her attention to him continued even after live-in servants offered to assist her. She declined, noting that her father deserved the very best of care, which only she as his daughter could give.
Perhaps some would attribute Zahra’s near obsession to his needs to reconfirm Nasser’s acceptance; other, to a fierce loyalty and a desire to seek approval from the only father she had ever known. To Zahra, it was merely an expression of love for the man who accepted her and loved her as his own and who reaffirmed those feelings each morning as he hugged her goodbye and kissed her on her head. And it was her remembrance of a not so distant past when he held her tiny body in his massive arms protecting her from all the world, while singing to her ancient Persian songs as she fell asleep.
***
At the age of nine, Zahra was invited into the drawing room office in their Tehran home by an unusually solicitous Nasser. Proudly, he showed her the plans for a magnificent mansion, a stone structure with imposing marble columns reminiscent of the palace of Darius I in Persepolis, destroyed by Alexander in 330 B.C. The proportions of the two-story, 21,000 square foot residence were accentuated by a central courtyard of almost an acre, surrounding an Olympic-size pool, fed by a small cascade. The flat roof boasted a terrace with potted trees and verdant gardens as luxuriant as those in the courtyard below. It was truly a home fit for royalty.
“What do you think of it?” Nasser asked as his eyes danced.
“I think it’s beautiful,” Zahra replied after carefully studying the plans for a minute or two. “Who is it for? I thought you were only building commercial properties now.”
Nasser said nothing for a few seconds, but then broke into as wide a grin as Zahra had ever seen. “It’s for us. It will be our new family home.”
Zahra smiled, not as broadly as Nasser, more as a matter of respect and said, “May I look at those plans again?”
Nasser stood back and watched her page through the elevations, the plot plan and the structural drawings, thinking that he was merely accommodating the curiosity of his daughter. After about five minutes of silence, Zahra looked up. “Wouldn’t it be better if the back of the house was shifted more to the west to better take advantage of the sun on the terrace garden?”
Nasser looked surprised and delighted. “Zahra joon, you never cease to amaze me. Of course, you are correct and I think that I need you to be my assistant for our project. What do you think?”
“I would love it,” Zahra smiled.
“Good. I will find you a hard hat that will not fall off your beautiful little head,” Nasser laughed.
***
True to his word, Nasser involved Zahra in the home project. He had a small, yellow hard hat specially made for her which she dutifully wore each time they visited the site. Sometimes she would carry a roll of plans in her arms. The project began to materialize as the leveling of the small hill that was the home site was completed. In a few weeks, as the foundation was poured into footings that, in Zahra’s eyes, seemed to extend for miles.
Zahra was far from timid, always asking questions, inspecting, making comments. One day, as she accompanied her father, the foreman asked Nasser, “Who is that little goh (shit)?”
Ten seconds later, the stunned foreman was picking himself and his teeth up off the ground.
“Don’t ever use that language around my daughter again,” Nasser angrily commanded. The foreman asked if he was fired.
“No,” Nasser replied in the tone of a teacher scolding a student, “I think you learned your lesson.”
Later, Zahra asked what had happened. “Nothing. He just used some bad language. It won’t happen again.”
Zahra smiled. She had never heard her father curse or use vulgarity. The extent of his profanity was calling someone a ‘goofball’.
Over the next year, the home began to take shape, emerging from the rich, loamy soil like some struggling megalith. While by no means as monumentally immense as the Persepolis palace, many observers often remarked that its grace and style was a tribute to the legacy of ancient Persian architecture. Nasser spared no expense. The milky marble columns were shipped from quarries in Italy. One entered the home through the fifteen foot, solid teak doors, would be greeted by a double curved stairway with marble steps carpeted by a crimson runner from Tabriz, a city known for its deep, rich, colorful rugs. The creamy travertine floors were inlaid with deep green and black marble designs. Plumbing fixtures of the latest technology and design were brought in from Germany. Many were gold plated. The expansive kitchen was outfitted with a commercial stove, three ovens, and walk in coolers and freezers. Large fireplaces faced with terra cotta colored marble graced the dining room, living room and ballroom. Austrian crystal chandeliers of five tiers hung from the ornate twenty-two foot ceilings, casting a magical light on the lavish window coverings, wall tapestries and exquisite Persian rugs.
The home itself consisted of twelve spacious bedrooms, fourteen bathrooms, a library of Persian, French, English and Arabic classics and a dining room with a mahogany table that could seat thirty. Upstairs, sequestered in a corner, was a thirty by thirty foot room used as Nasser’s study. Antiques, including furniture from Persia and Europe graced the home and museum quality paintings of notable artists hung on the walls.
The luxuriant terrace was filled with The fragrance of orange blossoms, camellias and gardenias filled the luxuriant terrace. The less protected gardens in the courtyard below bloomed with the pink of cherry trees, the white of almonds and the blush of peaches. Pomegranate bushes exploded in brilliant red. Contrasting this enchanting display of nature’s bounty, a six car garage housed two Mercedes, a Jaguar Mark V, a Jeep Wagoneer, a Cadillac and a Chevrolet Impala.
Three years after the ground had been broken, the magnificent structure welcomed them. The fruits of Nasser’s vision, dedication and hard work now loomed before them like a monument. He stood there with his arm on Noori’s shoulder, his four children in front of him.
“It’s beautiful, Baba-jan,” Zahra, now eleven, whispered, almost in awe, as the massive doors were opened. An overwhelmed Noori said nothing as she tightened her arms around her husband’s waist, still as slim and firm as when she had first met him.
“Tashakor, thank you. This will be our home for our family for generations to come,” Nasser proudly announced. “You may all live in it as long as you wish, but when each of you marries, I will build you a home across the grove of peach trees, beyond our gardens. With our forty acres, we have enough room to always be together, yet have some privacy, inshallah, please God.”
“But, if we have more brothers and sisters, is there still enough room?” the pragmatic Zahra asked.
Nasser smiled and squeezed Noori. “Of course we will have room,” he boldly replied. “If we don’t, we will buy more land.”
Two years later, Noori gave birth to their third son and final child, Nairman.
Chapter Four
Life in their new home approached the idyllic. Nasser had been amply rewarded for his integrity, honesty and dedication, or so it seemed. Within one year of the move into the new home, he was promoted to general. His development business grew more profitable each day as Tehran’s burgeoning housing and commercial demands were accommodated by an astute and foresighted Yazdoni and a talented Nasser.
Nasser’s congeniality and prosperity were no more apparent than in his penchant for lavish entertainment. His home was a showplace for both business and military dignitaries who accepted his frequent invitations to the exquisitely catered and impeccably hosted parties, the epitome of Iranian hospitality. Guests from Europe, China, the United States and even Australia were dazzled by the cornucopia of food and beverages, the quality of musical entertainment and Nasser’s gracious, well-mannered family usually attending these soirees. Of particular notice was Zahra, now blossomed into a striking beauty with long coffee hair highlighted by an auburn patina, large dark penetrating eyes that bespoke affability and intelligence, a soft, open face with a curved nose and full lips suggesting a yet undiscovered sensuality. Her petite but amply bosomed figure portended the woman that she was yet to become. Her diminutive stature, which sharply contrasted with her younger brothers, whose height had now outstripped hers, was a constant subject of inquiry.
“We were just poor when Zahra was born,” Noori would often joke, deflecting any further questioning.
Zahra loved entertaining and especially discussing Persian culture with Nasser’s guests. She was proud of a once powerful nation that had ruled the known world, and whose civilization, including wine-making, could be traced back over 7,000 years. She spoke of Persia’s impressive architecture, its development of mathematics, its respect of human rights dating back to Cyrus the Great, in the sixth century B.C., their prowess as horsemen and warriors and their ability to survive as a people through invasions of the Greeks, Turks, Arabic Muslims and the Mongols of Genghis Khan. It was apparent to all who spoke to her that she cherished her country and her heritage, yet she was not so presumptuous and insular as to be intolerant of what other cultures had offered or had yet to offer to the world.
If Zahra’s presence at Nasser’s functions was helpful, her assistance in Nasser’s business endeavors was even more contributive. Ever since she had amazed Nasser as she first reviewed the house plans, Nasser knew that she could be an asset in his business. He was delighted when she demonstrated her aptitude for business by easily completing small tasks such as paying bills. She carefully scrutinized each invoice, expressing concerns over questionable charges and vague itemizations. Before long, Nasser gave her the responsibility of billing out his services on those projects he didn’t own, and collecting on outstanding overdue bills.
On occasion, she would visit construction sites, still wearing the small, yellow hard hat, now a bit too tight, and inspect the compliance of the construction with the written plans and specifications. Nasser’s previous dental extraction incident with a supervisor insured that she was respectfully received and spoken to. Often Nasser would express concern at her visiting the site, attended only by a servant who drove her there, but Zahra would laughingly reply, “Don’t worry, Papa. Nothing will happen to me. Those workmen that don’t respect you, fear you.”
But it was far from all business for Zahra. She also kept busy with her demanding school schedule. Because of Nasser’s cosmopolitan view of the world, he enrolled Zahra in French Catholic School where she began to study French at the age of seven.
“What are you doing?” Nasser asked a Zahra, intensely pursing her lips about six inches from a mirror on her bedroom dressing table. For a moment, she continued to stare into the mirror.
“I’m learning French,” she finally replied as she continued to contort her face. “The pronunciation is very important and I must be perfect. My teacher told me to practice in front of a mirror and that’s what I’m doing.”
Nasser smiled and urged her to carry on, marveling at the dedication of his young daughter.
At thirteen, Zahra was admitted to the Tehran branch of the Sorbonne University and so excelled that she was recommended for admission to the Sorbonne in Paris. Ever open to a challenge, she eagerly embraced this new adventure and left Tehran for Paris. Her first impression of Paris was favorable, but also disappointing. Although she spoke French like a Parisian, she found the people there generally shallow, hedonistic and not as hospitable as her Iranian countrymen. But she vowed to ignore the loneliness and estrangement, concentrating instead on her studies. Soon, she was so engaged in her books that she failed to realize that she had only two friends, both from Tehran.
As the school year ended, she started to look more closely at herself and began to question the real benefits of a Sorbonne education in Paris, as opposed to Tehran. She missed her family and the life in Tehran, protected yet not sheltered, exciting but not libertine. On the other hand, Paris had begun to wear on her. The initial lure of the Champs de Ellyse, the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre had grown stale and banal, not in small part brought about by the culture of what she considered dissolute. Less than virtuous female students thought nothing of sleeping with every other student in class, whether male or female, and they would liberally use their promiscuity with willing professors to assure their success in class. Almost everyone smoked, drank to excess and partied into the early morning hours. Perhaps, at not yet fifteen, she was too young to understand, she thought. In any event, deciding that Paris was not the place for her, she returned to Tehran, not in defeat but in measured retreat. In less than three years, she completed her studies at the Sorbonne-Tehran, graduating at the age of seventeen with the equivalent of a Master’s degree.
***
With Nasser’s wealth, it did not take long for Noori and Zahra to engage in an intensive campaign of shopping. Shopping in Tehran was exciting at first with the growing city offering almost any type of clothing and trinket imaginable, but to these two women, it soon became minor league. The real professional shoppers plied their talents in venues such as Paris, Rome and London. By the time Zahra was twelve, she and Noori were veterans of such establishments as Georgio Armani and Bruno Magli in Rome, Yves St. Laurent and Prada in Paris and Herrod’s in London. These merchants were always delighted to welcome the “Rahimzadeh ladies” who flew in by private jet with one or two servants to carry the purchases the duo inevitably made. Nasser was happy to see the two enjoy themselves, almost as sisters, since Noori and Zahra were only fifteen years apart. He was even happier that he did not have to accompany them as they often took hours to buy just one item.
“We have a wonderful arrangement,” he would joke. “I make the money and they spend it. We all are very good at what we do.”
In spite of the quarterly shopping safaris and Nasser’s active military and business schedule, there always seemed to be time for family outings. On occasion, the family would visit some of Iran’s ancient cities as Nasser recounted their Persian history. Cities such as Shiraz, the ‘place of wine and roses’ and 7,000 year old wine barrels. Tabriz, with its legacy of fine rugs and Persepolis, a former architectural wonder now in ruins, never failed to evoke wonder and awe. During these trips, Nasser would often recite from Shanadah, the tenth century epic of ancient Persian heroes.
At least once every month, the family would pile in their maxi-van and travel north to the Caspian Sea. Although a region of this inland sea’s shoreline, near Baku, was blighted with producing oil wells pumping the dark liquid wealth from the bowels of the earth into pipelines and tankers, the southern and eastern shores remained pristine and magical. Majestic old growth pines and monolithic granite outcroppings veined with coursing hiking trails became the family’s pathways to needed solitude, repose and deliverance. Here each member regenerated at his or her own pace, silently absorbing the healing powers of the near mystical ambience that only nature could offer.
At their rustic lakeside home, Nasser would tell stories of his family and the generations past that had lived nearby. He spoke of the toils and hard work of his grandparents, little more than slaves to a system that kept them from living their dreams, humble as those dreams might have been. He would remind his family to take stock of what they had, to be grateful that fate had been kind to them and revere the generations before them that had paved the way for their prosperity. He knew he was among the most fortunate in the world with his devoted wife, loving children and a career that could easily provide for many generations yet to come. He envisioned a white-haired Nasser, perhaps a bit portly, sitting at this same cabin with young grandchildren on his knees, intriguing them with stories of the past and keeping alive for the future the legacy of his family. “Mashallah, mashallah,” thank god, he would whisper to himself.
Chapter Five
At the age of fifteen, just after her return from the Sorbonne in Paris, Nasser suspected that Zahra’s spirit might need a slight regeneration that only a new challenge could provide. Zahra had always been a good athlete. Her competitive nature, persistence, and intense desire to prevail had more than offset her compact stature. Even in basketball, she excelled with her quickness, speed and willingness to take and give a foul.
Nasser assessed his daughter’s strengths and decided to approach her about an ancient sport that was now being re-emphasized in Iran as a part of the Shah’s westernization program-- fencing. Zahra’s size would be an attribute not a drawback, he suspected. She would be a small target, and with her quickness, fearlessness and lightning reactions, she was a natural.
Zahra’s response was even more positive than Nasser had anticipated. She immersed herself into training, undertaking this new adventure with even more intensity, dedication and fierceness than anything before. She was extremely coachable, learned quickly and had to be told only once. She was always the first one to practice and the last to leave. Zahra grew more proficient and more confident each week, often defeating opponents with years of experience, not merely months as she had. In less than a year, she gained the reputation as a feisty, aggressive, quick and clever competitor, but she occasionally questioned herself as to whether she worked so hard because she enjoyed the sport or because she wanted to please her father. Under either scenario, she concluded, she was not disappointing her father and that’s what really mattered.
***
In the late fall of 1971, Zahra ran into the family home even more excited than usual.
“Where’s Papa?” she called to the cook who was preparing the luncheon meal. She pointed upstairs as Zahra bounded up, ran down the hall and pushed open the partly closed door into Nasser’s study.
“Babajan,” she shouted. “Guess what. Guess what.”
Nasser looked up from his desk, at first startled, but then seeing his daughter’s jubilance, smiled and said, “What?”
“I have been selected to try out for the Iranian Olympic team for the Olympics in Munich next year,” she triumphantly announced. “The tryouts are next week!”
“Bale’,” Nasser responded and gave her a hug. “I will be there to watch you…if it doesn’t make you too nervous.”
“It’s okay, Papa. I know you have important business in the south, near the Persian Gulf,” Zahra said with a hint of disappointment.
“Will I make you nervous if I watch you compete?” .
Zahra thought for a moment. She wanted her father to watch her. But she knew that his meeting was important. He was working with the government as a partner in a large 2,000 acre aquaculture project, producing shrimp. She knew the project was dear to his heart and she didn’t want his government partners upset with him. Yet she wanted her father to watch her, to share in her victory or comfort her in defeat. She knew that in either scenario, he would be proud of her.
“I would like you there, Papa, but I understand if you can’t make it,” she said meekly.
“Nonsense! The project can wait. I can always make more money, but I can never make more time. Any time with my family is precious. What does it matter if there is a few less shrimp in the world?”
***
The cavernous gymnasium was unusually crowded for a mere fencing event, even Olympic tryouts. Basketball games filled the stands consistently, wresting to a lesser degree, but fencing was hardly a crowd magnet. Who really wanted to see a couple of masked opponents dancing around in white leotards lunging and bobbing? With tips blunted by tiny orbs, the swords could hardly draw blood and blood is what drew a crowd. Few really understood the intricacies of fencing and the athleticism and quick reactions required to succeed.