Sunday, May 10, 2009

My sister Azi

The emotions surrounding my birth were unknown to me until many years later. I was the last of five children. My mother had married at the age of sixteen and had given birth to my oldest sister, Zhaleh, at the age of seventeen. When my mother got pregnant with me at age of thirty seven, Zhaleh had been married for about a year and was one month pregnant with her first child. My mother had her fourth child at the age of twenty eight and did not want to have any more children. Her children were growing up and she had no intention of changing diapers and breastfeeding again. More distressing to her was the fact that Zhaleh was already pregnant. The idea of being pregnant at the same time as her daughter was utterly embarrassing to her. She was depressed and tried not to go out very much and hid her pregnancy. At some point in her first trimester, she decided that she didn’t want to have me. She made an appointment with a gynecologist to have an abortion. In Iran, at least at that time during the 1960s, there were no laws against abortion. Abortions were done discreetly. The subject was considered more private than immoral. The night before the abortion my mother had a dream about one of the holy figures of the Baha’i Faith, which is the religion of my family. In the dream, she makes a great effort to speak to this most revered holy person, but he appears upset and he refuses to look at her or speak to her, turning his face to the opposite direction of my mother’s at every effort that she makes to look at his eyes. She woke up filled with remorse about planning to take the life of her own child. She concluded that God would not be pleased with her if she would have the abortion and that was why the holy figure would not look at her and seemed angry at her. She canceled the appointment the next morning and I was born about 5 months later one month premature.

The day before my birth was filled with anxiety and stress for my mother as Zhaleh went into labor. My mother accompanied her to the hospital and stayed with her during the long hours of a difficult labor and finally at about five in the afternoon my niece was born in the midst of cries of pain. The difficult and painful labor of my sister and her cries of pain were all too much for my mother to bear. Almost at the same time that my sister delivered her baby my mother went into labor. After making sure that my sister was OK, she left the hospital. She took a cab and went home to have me. I was supposed to be born at home just like the rest of my siblings. My parents could not afford a hospital stay for my mother. In the early hours of the morning the same gynecologist who was supposed to perform the abortion arrived at our house. I was born minutes later, a month premature in a room in our house which later was converted to our dining room. Present during the delivery were my father and my seventeen year old sister, Azar. My mother told me years later that as the moment of birth grew closer, my father was anxious to know if his fifth child would be a son. Having had three daughters and only one son, only the birth of another son could make the arrival of this unwanted child desirable. My mother told me that my father’s expressions of excitement were replaced with disappointment when he saw a very little girl come out of her womb. He said nothing and withdrew himself from me completely and didn’t hold me or touch me until about a month later. My seventeen year old sister who had witnessed my birth was in an awe by the miracle of birth and by the sight of a tiny, helpless baby who was blue all over. The seeds of everlasting bonds of affection between her and me were planted on that day. She was the most positive influence of my early childhood.

After about a month, my father warmed up to me and accepted and loved me like the rest of his children. He was a very gentle, kind, and quiet man, a very loving and giving father with a great sense of self sacrifice for his family.

My beautiful sister Azar whom I called Azi joon (“joon” means “dear” in Persian) filled the first five years of my life with her cheerful youth and endless expressions of love and laughter. She was my world. She was mine. I really believed that the purpose of her existence was to take care of me, tell me stories, and love me. I couldn’t stand to be away from her. She took me with her everywhere she went. I slept in the same room with her with my bedding next to hers. Every night she would tell me a story while holding my hand. I would often ask for my favorite story, the story of Cinderella. Every morning, I would follow her to the bathroom, we would brush our teeth together and she would help me get cleaned up for the day. Often at nights, after dinner, she would teach me songs which we would sing together. She played the accordion and I liked to dance to the music she played. She was very artistic and would make different kinds of crafts. One of her hobbies was to make silk flowers. As a present to me, she made a few silk flowers and put them in a little vase and gave them to me. We put them in the living room on a counter and I boasted about them to whoever that came to our house. Those first five years were the best years of my life. One day Azi joon had to go to the dentist. I followed her to the door of the house and begged her to take me. She kept explaining to me that she would be back before I knew it and she couldn’t take me to the dentist. I waited patiently until she came back. Her presence always made everything OK.

When I was about five years old, I noticed that Azi joon was crying a lot. She wasn’t happy anymore. I didn’t know what was going on. One afternoon, she was sitting at the dinning room table, her head was on the table and she was crying. My parents were standing next to her. I went to her and said, “Why are you crying Azi joon?” My mom said, “Azi joon wants to go from here.” I said, “Where do you want to go?” She said, “To hell”. Thinking that she might go and not take me, I pleaded, “Take me with you.” I didn’t know where or what hell was and my response sparked a laugh from my parents and my sister.

After about a month or so, I noticed a young man, Parviz, who was starting to come to our house on regular basis. Azi joon was always happy to see him. She would light up whenever he was around. Seeing him so friendly with my sister and so close to her bothered me. I felt that he was partaking of attention that should only be bestowed on me. He was always nice to me, but I didn’t like him. I was wondering for how long he was going to come around. He intimidated me. When he was with my sister, I didn’t feel comfortable running to my sister and throwing myself in her arms. At about the same time my mother started to tell me that Azi joon might be leaving us soon. I would ask why and she would say, “She is going to marry Parviz and go with him to Ahvaz.” My reaction to these words were to throw a fit, cry and proclaim that Azi joon was mine and she shouldn’t go with Parviz. My mom would say, “Azi belongs to Parviz now.” Again, I would cry out, “She is mine and I’m going to ask her if she is not.” I would run to Azi and say, “Azi joon, are you still mine?” “Yes, I’m yours.” she would always reply. I would ask, “Are you going to leave me?” She would always say, “No, I’m not going to leave you.” I guess, she didn’t have the heart to tell me that she was getting married soon and moving to Ahvaz, a city in the southwestern part of Iran, near some oil fields and very close to the Persian Gulf. My mother at first didn’t approve of the marriage, because Parviz was only a year older than my sister and was not yet established in his career. My mother also had someone else in mind for Azi. A doctor who was very much interested in her, although he wasn’t nearly as attractive as Parviz, but established and prosperous. These were qualities that were very attractive to my mother. In addition to that, my mother doesn’t have a romantic bone in her body or if she does none of us has ever seen it. She is extremely practical. In our culture, parents sometimes exert a lot of influence on the marriage of their children, but this time Azi’s perseverance and refusal to ever marry anybody else eventually changed my mother’s mind. I found out that the reason my sister had been so sad for a few months was because of my mother’s refusal to give consent for her to marry Parviz. The time that she was crying in the dining room was during one of her arguments with my mother about marrying Parviz.

Parviz was beautiful. He was tall and slender with light green eyes and chestnut color hair, uncommon in that part of the world. He was muscular and mild mannered. During the three months engagement of Azi and Parviz, I got to see him quite a bit more and my mother tried very hard to prepare me for Azi’s departure. I remember her engagement party. She put on a beautiful dress that she had made herself. She fixed her hair and put flowers in it. She was so happy and excited that her happiness and excitement rubbed off on me too. All that night, I followed her around like a puppy. Parviz was always next to her. By then, I had gotten used to the idea of always seeing him next to her. Everybody commented on what a beautiful couple they made. My sister was slender and proportional with beautiful face and hair and Parviz was considered handsome by everyone. I remember me and my niece who was born a day earlier than me would tell everyone, “I’m going to marry Parviz too when I grow up.” Although in the back of my head I thought he would be too old for me by then.

The day of the wedding was approaching. I knew something was going to happen but I didn’t know what it was. I was seeing less of Azi as she was preparing for the wedding. I still wasn’t sure if Azi was going to leave me or not. She had given me a lot of assurances about her love for me and how she would always be my Azi. But I couldn’t ignore my mother’s efforts in telling me that Azi would someday leave with Parviz.

At the night of the wedding, I saw Azi and Parviz together. My sister looked so different in her wedding gown and make up. Her dress was beautiful, but I had never seen her with make up before. She looked so different. She had changed. She was sitting next to Parviz surrounded by flower baskets. I circled around them a few times. I had become shy all of the sudden. She looked so different that I didn’t know if I should approach her or not. She noticed me circling around them and watching them from a distance. She called me and I ran to her. She made a little place for me to sit between her and her new husband. I realized that she was still the same person and all that change was just on the surface. On her wedding night she told me that she would see me again in a few days. The wedding had taken place in Tehran, the capital. Day after the wedding we went back to Hamedan, my hometown, and there I waited, patiently, for Azi’s return. In the last few months I had come to accept her not spending so much time at home. After a short honeymoon, Azi came home with her husband. I was happy to see her. I didn’t know that she had only come home to pack her things and move to Ahvaz with Parviz.

The day that she left we all accompanied her and Parviz to the bus station. I knew she was leaving. I clang to her and refused to let her go. I screamed and cried. My face was wet with tears. I remember Azi kissing me and telling me that she would come back to see me. My parents separated me from her. She got on the bus while I was calling her and crying. I saw her bus move and the last thing I saw was Azi’s face by the window at the back of the bus. She waved at me. Her lips were moving. I couldn’t tell what she was saying. I was crying in my mother’s arms as I watched the bus disappear in the crowd of the street and the movement of other cars and buses. The days that followed were filled with sadness, emptiness and a great sense of loss. A couple of weeks later, my mother received a letter from Azi. She called me into the living room. I ran in and she, excitedly, said, "We have a letter from Azi." I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. Does that mean that Azi was coming back? Is the letter somehow going to make me feel better or make me miss her less? She read the letter to me out loud. Azi was doing fine and she was happy. For an instant, I was happy. Then the letter was over and I asked my mom when will I see her. My mother replied, “next summer”. So everything was still the same. Receiving the letter was a great disappointment. For days my mother had told me soon we will receive a letter from Azi and I had been looking forward to it. But when it arrived and was read, I still missed Azi as much as ever. The letter didn't cure my heartache. I knew then that there was nothing that could be done. I had lost Azi forever and she was no longer mine. Nothing could take away the pain, loneliness and the abandonment that I felt. When Azi left she took with her a piece of my childhood. The years that followed had less joy and were more difficult.

Twenty five years later when I was thirty and living in the States in a phone conversation with Azi who lives in Iran and I have not seen since I was seventeen, she said to me, "I still feel bad about abandoning you when you needed me so much." It was only then that I realized that our separation had been painful for her too.

16 comments:

Anonymous said...

Dear Soheila, we all have unwillingly caused so much pain for others!!! Maybe that is a way we all have in order to grow; through pain and sufferings. Nirvana??? I seriously doubt it. We all are too far away from Nirvana. That is a state of mind for holy figures or highly spiritual people. What we probably may feel is a sense of indifference or unconcern. But again, just think whatever makes you feel alright. We all are entitled to it. Cheers

Soheila said...

Dear Anonymous

I was totally joking when I talked about Nirvana in my last blog, but I guess that wasn't clear. The state of indifference or unconcern not only is not close to Nirvana, it is not that noble either. I agree that we gorw through pain and suffering. I was kind of being sarcastic.

Who are you? I have an idea, but I'm not not sure. If you are a guy from my past and things didn't go well that's OK. We can still be friends in writing.

Anonymous said...

It is an honour to be your friend.

Soheila said...

Dear Anonymous,

You spelled honor the British way, honour. You are giving yourself away.

It is an honor to be your friend too.

Anonymous said...

;-)

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SHamim said...

I really love what you have written about Azi joon (My Mom), whenever I read it, it brings tears to my eyes!

Soheila said...

Shamim joon,

I'm glad you like it. Love you!

Soheila