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The Septembers of Shiraz YOU are sitting in your office and suddenly two armed men come in and say that you are under arrest. You are blindfolded and taken away to prison incongruously on the back of a motorcycle. Who knows when you will see your family again? Who knows when you will see yourself again? Prison changes equations; torture changes lives.
But, is this merely the story of Issac and his family? Or of countless Issacs like him all over the world? It can be your story one day! This is what horrifies. Terror on tiptoe—terror on overkill. What after all is a revolution? Some of the very people who were thrilled at the exile and overthrow of the cancer-stricken Shah now find themselves in prison. What was their crime? For living a life which was envied by many. Here it is often petty jealousies that land people into prison not actual crimes. Sometimes you do not know the people who are living with you in your own house. Sometime your own shadows are the traitors. The Amins’ housekeeper, Habibeh, points out to Issac’s wife, Farnaz, "You see `85, you belittle me every chance you get `85 ." But that is not wholly true. The Amins had settled Habibeh’s son Morteza down with a job, yet he robs Issac’s office and snarls that he was not ever treated on par with the son of the family, Parviz. "Such nonsense," retaliates Issac. And whatever we say, it is nonsense. Would anything have changed Morteza’s essentially envious nature? A housekeeper’s son is not treated like the son of the family. Yes, he can be given a job and a salary, but he is not equal to the employer. He seems grateful for a job but it is a sour gratitude that can turn around and betray when you see a chance of grabbing whatever was your employer’s—your superior’s. What then does a revolution achieve if it degenerates into petty grabbing and greed? Lashings on the feet in prison, flesh rotting in shared cells, a friend executed because he is a musician, a boy shot the day after his much beloved mother `85 cruelty calls hollowly to cruelty `85 etched in hope that humanity will somehow prevail `85 in the beautiful calligraphy of a torn manuscript, in the serene loveliness of a country torn apart by civil war, in Issac’s young daughter, Shirin, hiding files to save other people from the tortures of prison `85 . Issac bribes his torturer, Mohsen, with his life-savings to be allowed a chance to escape. Yet, he anguishes within himself when he wonders how that money will be spent. Will it be used to destroy other lives, other families? But he hands over the money. It is somehow pitiful to see how money can always win over ideals. But perhaps there were no ideals in the first place. The Amins leave Iran for a place of comparative safety. They have their lives but have lost their homeland. Perhaps they will find it in America with their son. Perhaps they will find it in the memories of Issac’s newly widowed mother who refuses to leave with them. Perhaps they will find it in Habibeh’s anguished realisation that betrayal finally turns and feeds on itself. Or perhaps they will never find another land where the dust turns gold with the setting sun and tears are molten silver with every moonrise `85 . Does it matter? This is not only a story of revolutionary Iran but a fable of civil unrest all over the world. Ideals fail and idols fall. It is ultimately the art of survival that prevails.
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This is what happens to
the Jewish rare-gem dealer, Issac Amin, in the aftermath of the
Iranian revolution. What happens next and in between forms the crux of
Dalia Sofer’s prim and horrific story painted in glowing colours on
a Persian canvas.