Excerpt from Veil of Walls
© Patricia Panahi, 2008
Prologue
March
1974 - Tehran, Iran
I used to be an American. I wore saddle shoes and shorts and tank
tops. I had pigtails tied with yellow ribbons and wiggled my hips to keep my hula hoop in the air. I remember marbles
and Tootsie Rolls, Wonder Woman comic books, and chocolate-covered ice cream cones from the local Dairy Queen. I
had Halloween bags brimming with candy, Easter Egg hunts, lighted Christmas trees draped with angel hair, and a living room
window stenciled with Santa and his sleigh. I spent summers exploring our neighborhood under canopies of maple and elm trees
on my three-speed Raleigh Colt bike, bright blue with white trim. "Be home for supper," Mom would say. It was the
fifties. It was Lexington, Massachusetts. And I was safe.
But these memories are faded now, the edges
worn and browned like old photographs.
The moezin calls the faithful to prayer from
a nearby mosque. I slip out from under the woolen comforter and pad across the soft sands and browns of the Baluchi carpet.
Swinging windows wide, I gaze out into the courtyard and breathe in fresh air scented with lilacs. It is just before dawn,
the sky blushed in peach and plum. Akbar, the family gardener and handyman, sits on his haunches by the tiled fountain, performing
the cleansing ritual for his morning prayers. Tall brick and stucco walls surround the courtyard, dissected by a blue
iron gate.
My name is Anahita Sadeghi and I am twenty-two
years old. For the last twelve years, I have lived in Iran. If I'd stayed in Massachusetts, I would have dated, learned
to drive, gone to a prom. But in Iran, I couldn't associate with men outside my family, couldn't make decisions for
my own future, couldn't leave the house without permission even though I am an adult. Once, I was required to serve tea
to a balding middle-aged suitor while his mother sized me up.
I turn
to my dresser and examnine the document. My stomach tightens as I recall the previous day's visit to the government
office - the musty smell; the line of weary applicants shuffling their feet on tile floors chipped and stained; the click-clack
of typewriters, the rat-faced clerk, horn-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose. I had spent months trudging through
the maze of government offices, drowing in the oceans of paperwork required to leave the country. This, I'd been reassured,
was the final piece.
I splayed my fingers on the counter while the clerk examnied my
documents. My stomach roiled with motion and turmoil. I tapped my right foot on the tiled floor.
The clerk shook his head and clucked his tongue, then slid the paper across the counter. "Khanoum," he said, looking
at me over his glasses, "this is not complete."
My breath caught in my throat.
"This section," he pointed, rapping the line with his pen. "You need the signature of your male guardian before
you can leave the country."
My back stiffened. I jutted my chin forward.
"Agha, I am twenty-two years old," I said, a note of irritation creeping into my voice.
He removed his glasses, confusion evident in those dark, sunken eyes. He raised his eyebrows and leaned forward. "Khanoum
dear, all women, regardless of age, must have the permission of their male guardian before they can exit the country."
He spread his hands. "This is the law."
In my bedroom, Akbar's prayers fill the
courtyard. The family stirs. Tea glasses clink in the kitchen. The aromas of Darjeeling tea and fresh sangak bread seep under
the door. Slippered feet shuffle down the hall.
I clutch the document. My heart pounds
against my chest. Obedience - the word tastes like copper pennies in my mouth. A woman must obey, I am told. She must obey
her father, her uncles, her older brothers, her husband, as if being born with a male member granted them sagacity unknown
to the female species. Ugh!
My shoulders tense. I hunger for independence,
for the opportunity to make my own decisions - study art in college, pursue a career, fall in love - my own choices, my
successes, my mistakes. I need space to breathe. Will they let me go?
One signature stands between me and freedom. Between the life of obedience in Iran and the freedom to choose in America. My
pulse roars in my ears. I pull back my shoulders, open the door, and step out into the corridor.
Today my destiny will be decided.
