Letter to my grandmother, Iran

Ghorbonet beram, my dear Maman Vakili.

I wish I could have held your hand and kissed you once more. But you are gone, and we're left with tears, memories, and sentimental wonderings. These are some of mine.

I always loved that your name was Iran.  I enjoy sharing that detail with my family or friends whenever the occasion arises. You are Iran. A daughter of Iran. A woman of Iran.  Your name is so beautifully poetic and appropriate.  I wish I could know how it sounded when your siblings called your name at home, or when your school friends shouted your name on the playground. I wonder also how your parents decided to name you Iran.  What visions and dreams did they have for you?  

Maman vakili, you were classic Iranian-woman chic, something all your children and grandchildren have long admired and frequently commented on.  You were always chic, right up to the very end.  Ameh Nasrin sent me the pictures and videos from your 97th birthday party. So chic! I was so happy, and very envious, that my cousin, your grandson Pedram was there from Canada. And so was your nephew Siamak from Kentucky. Two of your truest devotees.  But you weren't just chic in dress. Your personality was chic. You weren't the gossiping type or the boastful type.  Always graceful, always humble. But you know you could be a little boastful, don't you? You raised 4 remarkable children, my Ameh Nasrin, my Amus Nader and Sasan, and my father Roozbeh. You have 7 grandkids, 5 great grandchildren. All of us strewn around the world, walking in your dignified shadow. It’s impossible to sing everyone’s praises, there are too many of us. But in Nasrin, your oldest daughter, you raised a lioness amongst wolves in a nation where women are by definition 2nd class citizens.  Her heroic devotion to you is a reflection not just of the depth of a daughter’s love for her mother, but the sweet fruits of a mother’s lifetime labor of love to her family.

I remember how you grieved when my parents divorced. You were the rare mother-in-law whose affection for her daughter-in-law was pure, unflinching, and uninterrupted by the fragmentation that divorce inevitably brings. Your love for my mom was easy, and uncomplicated. And completely mutual. Maryam, my mom, adored you. Everyone in the family knows about this mutual affection.  I smile now as old memories of those days come racing forward. Once when it was all said and done between my parents, you said to me with a sly smile, "What is it to me that they can't get along? that has nothing to do with me. I love your mom just the same."

I wish I had had a chance to talk with you about the Zan Zendegi Azadi movement. How did you, Iran, the quintessential and exemplary Iranian mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, who lived nearly an entire century as a woman in Iran, as a grade school teacher in Tehran's public schools, feel about the possibilities for freedom in your namesake nation? 

But after all, you were never one to wear your politics on your sleeve.  Your morality, like everything else about you, was subtle, gentle, and self-evident.  Your ethics were somehow expressed in your demeanor, which was simultaneously melancholic and joyful. You made space for despair and hope. I could see it in your eyes and hear it in your laughter.  I know your heart broke for the children of Iran. For the poor, the sick, and the oppressed. And I know in my heart that you felt deep sorrow for all the children in the Middle East, from Israel to Gaza, Kabul to Mashad. You grieved for all children who are robbed of their childhoods.

I wish we could talk together about education. About your decades teaching elementary school in Tehran. Sure I’m biased, but you must have been the best teacher! I wonder what the children called you? I will ask my dad. In those days you were surely a unicorn for having a family and a career.  I wish I knew more about your childhood and young adulthood. You were only 6 years old when your dad passed away, the same age as my oldest son, Sasan.  Just like Sasan, you had two younger siblings,  Khaleh Narges and Khaleh Pooran.  I just can't imagine. Suddenly, you lost your dad, and shortly after you were separated from your two younger sisters and mother and sent off to live with your uncle Gholam Hosain in Tehran. After getting married to Baba Vakili at a very young age, you brought your mother to live with you in your new family. My father, your son Roozbeh has shared with me warm memories of growing up with his grandmother, who he simply called Khanoom (lady).  How incredible and fitting that your mom's name was Rafaat, which means kindness. I wonder if you learned your kindness from your mother. Despite the separation at such a young age, I think it’s remarkable that you remained so close with your sisters throughout your lives, perhaps best illustrated by all of the cousins having close and warm relations.  A beautiful, durable, and everlasting connection even while spread across decades and continents. 

You passed away peacefully in a quiet room of the Kosar Hospital in the city of Karaj on December 14, 2023.  I wonder what kinds of objects you noticed in your last hours. I wonder what kinds of thoughts and emotions traveled through your heart. How the light entered the room. I'll never know, but I can hope there was a sense of peace and gentleness, sweetness, and deep rest.

I wonder about the people who showed up to the burial ceremony and the ones who will show up in the forthcoming remembrance ceremonies that are typical in the Iranian tradition. Many of the people I probably have never met. Many of them may know you in ways that I don't and never will. But I have claims to a different kind of knowing. A different knowledge of you.  One that humbles oceans and decades and borders and visa requirements and travel bans and wars.  Your friends and acquaintances who will be present during these ceremonies, if they have been fortunate enough, might share the knowledge that your Ghormeh Sabzi is unimpeachable.  Do you remember that was the last meal you cooked for me? It was just us in your 2 bedroom apartment in the Gisha neighborhood. My month-long trip to Iran was coming to an end. You wanted to give me one last home-cooked meal. I requested ghormeh sabzi, exactly as a grandson who doesn't have any taroof with his grandmother would. God, it was amazing. We ate til our stomachs and hearts were bursting at the seams.  Next, we napped.  We awoke to some hot chai, then proceeded to a second round of ghormeh sabzi!  It’s a truly delicious memory. 

It’s never easy to say goodbye. You lived 97 long, mostly healthy years. There is an undeniable sense of joy attached to this fact. But there is a tragedy that has to be named as well, unique to the political condition of Iran and Iranians in the diaspora.

Call it injustice or absence of good fortune. Blame the CIA or the British or the Islamists or Trump or Biden or Obama or ourselves, or some combination. What is clear is that the political condition in Iran prevented three of your children and most of your grandchildren from seeing you. From being present at your burial. We all knew the end was near. We had the means. But, alas, the risks and complications, and fear prevailed. If anyone wants to understand why politics is personal for so many in the world, here is your example. Because of politics, the majority of your children and grandchildren must live with the bitter truth that we were denied the opportunity to kiss you and hold your hand one last time.  I hope you know how intense my desire to visit you was. How profoundly I wanted to come to Iran one last time before you left us. To introduce you to my wife kihana, who cried when she heard the news even though you've never met, and to my children. Sage and Simone, Hafez, Azad, and Sasan.  Last summer was the summer I was planning to come with Sasan, who had just turned 6 years old. But I was wisely cautioned against the trip.  I knew in my gut what that meant. I would likely never see you again. 

I've always identified myself as a child of Iran. Even though I'm 40 and I left when I was barely 3. I don't offend easily, but try to diminish my connection to Iran and you will be swiftly disabused of your misconception.  I'm quite literally a child of Iran. I'm your child. I will always be, and I plan to shower my children with stories about Iran, their baba's homeland, and their great-grandmother.  They are your children too.

Khodahafez, Maman Vakili. I will miss you with all my heart.

Your grandson,

Sepehr