Migratory Violets

Abstract

Migratory Violets Sepideh Zamani (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution An Iranian woman living in the US seeks to understand the meaning of home on a journey to Egypt to visit the burial place of Mohammed Reza Pahlavi, the Iranian king respected for his religious tolerance but forced into exile for the same. [End Page 30] Ca n someone in exile ever find home again? Early in 2022, I asked myself that question as I flew from my adopted home in Washington, DC, to visit the tomb of the Shah of Iran, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, who was exiled to Egypt during the Iranian Revolution. He was a man my father greatly respected because he gave religious minorities, like us, the chance to live like anyone else. The 1979 revolution would change that, forcing the Shah of Iran and many minorities into exile. When it seemed that everyone had turned their backs on him, President Anwar Sadat invited the Shah to live in Cairo. President Sadat had made it clear to Mohammad Reza that he was not a guest but that Egypt would be his home. Iranians believe that to truly understand someone, you must know their friends. So, I was on my way to Cairo. I was five years old when the Iranian Revolution began, which would reshape the country of my birth. Despite the difficulties created for my family, my father stayed in Iran. He believed that a person who moved away from home once would never find home again. Sometimes I wonder if, staying in Iran, he was ever able to experience the kinds of happy moments I remember from before the revolution. Like the summer of 1978, when we traveled to Persepolis and Shiraz, the land of Cyrus the Great, in his cherry-red Paykan. We spent every other weekend at the beach where the tall, green Alborz Mountains met the Caspian Sea and deep blue sky. During the week, rain or shine, my dad helped my grandfather in his rice paddy while my mom, my older brother, and I walked through the fields surrounded by the smell of the rice seedlings growing in hot, humid air, picking tangy fruit from the wild pomegranate trees and sweet raspberries from the bushes. All I have of that life now in Washington, DC, is a few black-and-white photographs that I brought with me. Because I know the dangers of a postrevolution country firsthand, I can't deny that I was nervous about traveling in Egypt only a decade after their own uprising. It was almost 9:00 p.m. when the plane landed at Cairo International Airport. After getting through customs, I took a taxi to my hotel downtown. The driver started a conversation and asked me where I was from. When I answered, he looked at me in the rearview mirror. "But you do not look American," he said. I knew what he meant. If I had been traveling in Europe, I would have ignored his opinion. But I knew, from my experience with revolution, that any taxi driver could be working with the government for security purposes. Now here in Egypt, it was safer to answer the question. "I am Iranian in exile," I said reluctantly. "You came to visit the tomb of the Shah?" he asked, looking at me again. "Yes," I said. "Welcome home, sister," he said. Hearing that melted my tension away. Still, I asked myself why he would welcome me home. When he saw my confusion, he continued: "When you've buried someone you love and respect from your country in another land, that land becomes your home." I was exhausted from the flight, so I avoided his gaze and looked out the window to end the conversation. The city looked dark and gloomy, and the heavy smell of vehicle exhaust filled the air. Trash cans full of garbage, half-demolished buildings, abandoned apartments, and endless advertising billboards on both sides of the streets were all signs to me of economic crisis. An hour later, in my room, before even looking at the view, I stretched my legs out on the bed and fell asleep thinking about where to...