Taking Cover: One Girl's Story of Growing Up During the Iranian Revolution

CHAPTER 3

ACTING

1980

Az khejalat ab shodam.

— Persian proverb

I melted from shame.

The bell rang, signaling the end of recess. Anahita and I were running to the theater when we saw Keyvan squeezing his head through a thin slit in the metal gate. This gate used to separate the elementary and middle school from the high school, but now it separated the girls from the boys. Thin metal sheets had been hammered onto the gate so that kids on either side could not see each other. Now that the shah was gone, this new government was hard at work going against the progress the shah had wanted for his country. The new regime said it was against Islam for genders to mingle unless they were related by blood.

“Psssst, psssst,” he said.

“What is it?” I said.

“Come closer,” he said. “I have something to tell you.”

“We can get in trouble, Keyvan,” Anahita said. “You’re not supposed to be talking to us.”

“Yeah, go away!” I said.

At least with our school no longer being coed, I didn’t have to deal with Keyvan’s annoying habits, like looking up my skirt or blowing me kisses during class. At nine years old, I knew what I didn’t like—boys with annoying habits.

“But I want to tell you something,” he continued.

“What is it?” I said.

“Have you heard about Bianca?” he said. “They’ve executed her father.”

I gasped.

“Oh no!” Anahita said. She looked as if she might cry. I held on to her because my knees felt too weak to hold me.

“So that’s why she hasn’t been in school,” I said. “Keyvan, how do you know this?”

“My uncle lives across the street from them. He said these men showed up late at night at Bianca’s house, dragged her father out, and forced him in a car. Apparently, he was a general.”

“This is so awful,” I said. “It’s so awful. Poor Bianca.”

“What is she going to do?” Anahita asked.

“Don’t know,” Keyvan said. “Their house is completely dark. No lights on.”

We stood there, shocked.

“Oh no, I gotta go!” Keyvan said.

He disappeared from the slit in the gate.

“Nioucha! We’re waiting for you!”

It was our teacher, Mrs. Ganji, standing on the steps of the theater about 30 feet away. We must not have heard the bell ring because we were the only kids left on the playground.

“I’m coming! Sorry, Mrs. Ganji.”

Anahita and I darted toward her, hoping Mrs. Ganji hadn’t seen us talking to Keyvan.

I noticed Anahita wiping her eyes, and I paused.

“Anahita?”

She turned around, the rims of her eyes red.

“I can’t believe Bianca’s father’s been killed,” Anahita said.

I couldn’t think of anything to say. It all seemed too much to even comprehend.

“I mean, we’ve heard about all these executions, right? But I didn’t know anybody in person.”

Anahita sniffed and dabbed her eyes. “Let’s go, Nioucha.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “Do you need another minute?”

“Thanks, I’m good. Come on.”

When we entered, our class was already getting into costume, rehearsing our upcoming play. I loved this theater. It could seat 150 people, and the walls were decorated with burgundy velvet. When I looked up, a giant gold sun smiled down at me, its rays extending out to the edges of the ceiling.

That’s when I noticed that a large framed picture of Ayatollah Khomeini, our new leader, had been centered above the stage to replace the one of the shah and Farah. They had looked so friendly, smiling in their photo. But Khomeini frowned, and with his long white beard, he looked permanently angry. As a religious leader, he wore a turban.

From the minute he arrived in Tehran I hadn’t liked him. He had turned our lives upside down. Now I saw him as something worse. As a killer. An executioner. I looked at that picture, willing him to notice me, but his eyes were downcast. He may have thought that he was a holy man and destined for heaven, but I had no doubt he was going to hell for giving the order to kill Bianca’s father and dozens of other people whose only crime had been to serve a man that Khomeini despised.

“That’s right,” I thought, “don’t meet my stare. The hatred in my eyes can surely burn a hole in your skull right now.”

“Nioucha, get on stage and stop daydreaming,” Mrs. Ganji said.

I snapped out of it and blinked. I had been so wrapped up in hating Khomeini that I couldn’t remember what I was doing here. That morning, Mrs. Ganji had asked me to replace a classmate who had gotten sick the night before.

“You’ll play the part of the king’s brother,” Mrs. Ganji had said.

“I’m playing a boy?” I asked.

“Seeing as our school isn’t coed anymore, yes, you are.”

“But, Mrs. Ganji, I don’t look like a boy.”

“With a big turban and a fake mustache, you will. Now, let’s rehearse.”