Why has Father Stayed Home? (Stories of the Revolution for Children and Youths 1)

Culture and Art

542
22 December 2021

Stories of the Revolution for Children and Youths

In the Name of God, the Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful

Author’s Note

“The Stories of the Revolution” is a total of about twenty in number, and children play the main role in all of them. These stories were sent to me or entrusted to me by children from different parts of Iran at the height of our sacred revolution. They were either given to me through my acquaintances or were handed to me during my journeys all around Iran. In the climax of the revolution, these stories couldn’t be typeset. I arranged six of them and converted them from the simple report form to story form; I wrote them out with a pen and published them. These kinds of stories were called “white cover” back in those days because no one had the time to design and publish a nice cover. After publishing these six volumes, the serious post-revolution works began; I went to the Red Crescent Organization and worked day and night to start the “Red Crescent Volunteers Organization.” Afterwards, the entanglements and pressures of life didn’t leave me time to turn those glorious, bittersweet adventures into “stories.” I gradually arranged six more stories, but didn’t finish and publish them. The rest of the adventures and outlines were left unfinished.

This year (1994) the first five stories are being reprinted with the effort of “Hozeh Honari” in a beautiful format, along with illustrations. You are looking at it now. With hope in God, if I stay alive, I will publish the other six stories next year, on the anniversary of our great and glorious revolution. And if I remain alive for more, I might publish the other eight in the upcoming years…

These stories, which are about the nooks and corners of the biggest revolution in human history, are a dear memento; I want them to be left behind from me and the children who entrusted these notes and memories to me.

I had a faithful co-worker who helped me in the compilation of some of these stories and I would like to thank him. So, thank you, Mr. Shakour Lotfi.

And also, it wouldn’t be right to not thank the first publisher of this series; because back in those wonderful days, these kinds of works needed a lot of courage. So, with thanks to Farzin Publications.

Our revolution was such that even if hundreds of big books were written about it, it would still not suffice. These few small books are a dim star in the clear and unlit sky.

Thank you and goodbye

Nader Ebrahimi

November 6^th, 1993

***

People had become like mice; small mice that were afraid of hungry cats. People walked along the walls silently and talked very quietly. It was as if everyone was in the examination hall. If you turned your head or even asked someone something with your eyes, you would be in big trouble.

Before all of this, if Ali wanted to go out and buy bread or play with the kids in the neighbourhood, he had to tell his father and ask him for permission; but it had been a long time now that Father had nothing to do with him. He neither yelled at him nor asked him about his left-behind homework. He didn’t even pet him on the head anymore. There wasn’t even anything in his father’s eyes that would, like back in those days, scare him or give him assurance.

It was as if Ali’s father wasn’t a father anymore, and had nothing to do with his son. Ali was not happy that his father had given him so much freedom, and he didn’t know why he wasn’t happy.

Father would sit in the “small room” and write some things or would sit hug his knees and think, or would listen to the radio. The radio volume was so low that if you didn’t stick your ear to it, you wouldn’t hear a word.

Father would leave the house on some nights too, of course; but very, very quietly. It was as though he was even afraid of Ali.

Mother would still do the house chores, but God knows there was not even one smile on her lips anymore.

Ali couldn’t understand anything. He tried very hard to understand, but it wasn’t an easy job. No one said anything for Ali to figure out what was going on.

Back when the schools were open, at least he would talk to the kids – of course very quietly. He had learned to talk quietly too. Everyone had learned this; even the teachers. But when the schools closed, Ali was left with the kids in the neighbourhood. And they didn’t know much either. Everyone said that the big hungry cat was looking for an excuse. It was a long time since Taqi’s father was gone and hadn’t returned. His mother cried silently but didn’t say anything. Asghar’s older brother, who was the neighbourhood’s ice cream man, wasn’t around either. Asghar’s mother cried soundlessly and didn’t say anything.

The other men would still come and go; but not like before, when they came with a lot of noise and left with a lot of noise. There were tears in everyone’s eyes and everyone was quiet. If Akbar Agha came back and opened his ice cream shop, who would feel like eating ice cream anymore?

Back then, early in the morning, Taqi’s father would knock on Ali’s door and say, “Mohsen Khan, are you ready?” And Mohsen Khan, Ali’s father would go skipping down the stairs. Taqi’s father had a car. In Ali’s street, Taqi’s father was the only one who had a car. So, he would fill his car with the people in the neighbourhood. No one could count how many people got on Taqi’s father’s car, and there was the sound of joking and laughter from inside the car. It was over. Those good days had gone and were over.

Now, Mohsen Khan didn’t go to work anymore, and Taqi’s father wasn’t there either to come and call him.

Ali could only feel that there was no good news. He felt that everyone was frightened. Maybe, the fat hungry cats were hiding here and there in ambush, looking for an opportunity to jump out and catch the quiet and meek mice…

And to tell you the truth, that is exactly what happened.

***

One night, a few men broke into Jafar’s home, arrested his father and took him away.

Jafar himself narrated the story for us in this way, “I was pouring tea for my father. My mother had gone to buy bread. My father was sitting and reading a declaration. Suddenly, Mother threw herself into the house and wanted to close the door behind her, but couldn’t. The door was forced open and three big men with guns jumped in. I looked at my father. He had raised his head and his face was pale and colourless. My father said, ‘Esmat, take the kid to the kitchen!’. But one of the men stopped my mother and pulled her chador. My mother was shaking and whispering a prayer. There was nothing she could do in those circumstances.

I hope they die! I hope they get cancer! They hit my father on the hit with the back of their guns. I ran up and caught one of the men’s hands and screamed. He pushed me and hit me against the wall. I couldn’t breathe anymore and everything blurred in front of my eyes. They took my father while in his pyjamas. They beat him as they took him. My mother cried and said, ‘Have mercy! Have mercy!’, but it was as if they didn’t hear my mother’s voice. They didn’t hear anything. My father didn’t say even one word. He didn’t even say ‘ouch’. Then, they came back and put the house in a mess. I was crying. My mother cried and kept saying, ‘Have mercy!’. They broke our dishes. They opened my school bag and tore up all my books. They punched and broke Imam Ali’s picture frame. And finally, one of the men pulled my mother’s hair and said, ‘If you speak a word, we’ll kill your husband.’ And they left…

My mother and I were shocked. Then, Fatemeh Khanom and Agha Mortaza came to help us…”

***

When Ali got back home, he wanted to retell all of what he had heard from Jafar, with all the same heat and sorrow; but his father didn’t give him a chance at all. Ali went to the kitchen heartbroken and told his mother everything. His mother was stunned. Then, Mother went to the “small room” and shut the door. It was obvious that she was telling Ali’s father all of Ali’s words…

***

Then, it was Mahdi’s parents’ turn. Again, in the same way, and maybe even worse. One night, they climbed up the walls of Mahdi’s yard and jumped into their house.

Mahdi said, “There were six of them. They threw me in the attic and locked me up there. Then, I could only hear the sound of my mother crying and my father wailing. In the dark attic, I kept hitting my head against the wall and crying. I kept punching the attic door. I don’t know how long it took for everything to become silent. I wanted to get out of the attic, but they had locked the door and left. It looked like I had to stay there till I died of hunger and thirst. To tell you the truth, I really wished to die. That was why I didn’t yell and scream. I sat and cried…and cried…

Then, I don’t know after how long, I heard the footsteps of a few people and the voice of Esmat Khanom (Jafar’s mother) who was calling me. I answered.

Esmat Khanom asked, ‘Where are you? Mahdi dear, where are you?’

I said, ‘In the attic!’

She said, ‘Come out! They’re gone.’

I said, ‘They’ve locked the door on me.’ Esmat Khanom came and opened the door. Esmat Khanom was there with Mehri Khanom, Hoseyn’s older brother, and Mahmoud’s father. They were all crying.

Mehri Khanom said, ‘They took your mother too.’ I said, ‘I know.’ My parents used to work together! You have no idea what our room looked like. They had broken and messed up everything…

Mehri Khanom said, ‘It’s ok. We’ll take revenge someday. Mahdi dear! Come to our house, and stay with Mahmoud’…

***

Mahmoud’s parents took Mahdi to their own house. Mahdi and Mahmoud were close friends from before. Now they could easily talk and play with each other. They had a yard too; but who felt like talking and playing?

The truth was that Ali yearned to take Mahdi to their own house; but Ali’s father didn’t say one word, and until he didn’t say anything, Mother wouldn’t open her mouth either…

Then, it was Mahmoud’s father’s turn.

And then Mohammad’s father and older brothers’ turn.

And then, from the end of the street, they took Agha Reza the shoemaker and his wife who had just gotten married. Agha Reza’s wife was Haj Agha Akbar the shopkeeper’s daughter.

And Haj Agha Akbar, the shopkeeper below Ali’s house, closed his shop and ran away.

No one really knew what the people in Ali’s street had done; the narrow and short street that was named the “Street of the Fighters”…

Eventually, the street was left with only Ali’s father. Out of the young and lively men of the street, only Ali’s father was left. They had also taken three of the street’s women too…

And Ali’s agony began right from the time the street became empty and uncrowded.

***

Back then, Ali, Jafar, Taqi, Mahdi, Mahmoud, and the others would gather and talk with each other whenever they had time; or they would think up of something to build together, or they would read a book together… But slowly and gradually, Ali noticed that the kids weren’t interested in talking to him anymore. He noticed that they replied to his greetings coldly and didn’t ask him how he was doing. He noticed that they didn’t call him when they were reading a book, or building a wooden car, or wiring Hasan’s canary’s cage…

Ali noticed that the kids in the neighbourhood didn’t count him as one of themselves anymore and didn’t have anything to do with him.

And this issue burned Ali like someone rubbing salt into his wound. It burned Ali’s heart.

At first, he couldn’t believe that they had set him aside. Kids don’t hold grudges. But later, he learned that the issue was very serious, and got more serious day by day.

On the way back home from the bakery, he would linger around so long until Mahdi and Mahmoud showed up. Ali smiled and said hi, but Mahdi and Mahmoud turned their heads away and went, whispering.

Ali would knock on Taqi’s door and say, “I’m here to see Taqi,” but Taqi’s mother squirmed and replied, “Ali dear! Taqi is not home. Go to your own father. Go take care of your father, Ali dear!”

Tears filled Ali’s eyes, and the sorrow of the world poured into his heart. He dropped his head and went back. Ali would tell himself, “What does that have to do with my question? I’ve come to see Taqi and his mother tells me to go to my own father!”

Ali didn’t even understand why everyone was staying away from him. But one day, all of a sudden, when he was alone, all alone, he noticed that the issue was related to his father. The only man in the street! The only man in the street! Why didn’t they come and arrest and take his father?

Why didn’t they come and beat him up? Why didn’t Ali have a story to tell, like all the other stories? Why didn’t grief come to their house? Why didn’t the sound of cries come from their house?

***

Ali would go to the kitchen, stand in a corner, leaning against the wall, and stare at his mother. Mother could tell that Ali had something to say and was sorrowful, but she didn’t turn a hair. Ali finally started to talk.

- “Mother! Why has Father stayed home?”

- “He doesn’t have anything to do. The factory is closed.”

- “I know that, Mother. I mean, why…why…”

Tears didn’t let him finish his words. Mother looked at Ali without saying anything. She had nothing to say. Even if she had something to say, you can’t say everything to kids.

Ali would go and come back when he was finished crying. He would crouch in the corner of the kitchen and would wait.

***

One night, a childish handwritten note was posted on Ali’s door, “Good men don’t stay home!,” and on another night, another handwriting wrote, “Death to the traitor!”

***

Ali grasped his mother’s skirt, crying, and said, “But why? Why has father stayed home?”

Mother sat and said, “This is not Father’s fault…”

“It is Father’s fault. I know. Everyone knows. The kids don’t talk to me anymore.

They don’t even answer me when I say hi. Don’t you see what they have written on our door? I’m dying of sorrow, Mother. I’m…I’m dying of grief… It’s such a big shame, Mother…”

Mother embraced Ali’s head. She caressed him and said, “I swear to God, it’s not your father’s fault. Your father is like everyone else; like all the people. You can’t understand it. It doesn’t matter at all if the kids don’t talk to you or write things on our door; what matters is for you to be sure that your father is not a bad person, and has nothing less than others…”

But Ali couldn’t believe this.

Ali had believed that good fathers are taken, and bad fathers are left; cowardly fathers…

And in the entire, narrow “Street of the Fighters,” only Ali’s father was left.

Ali used to go and peer through the “small room’s” door very quietly and look at his father. Father was sitting comfortably and writing some things. Ali wanted to yell. He wanted to curse. He wanted to tell Father the same things that the kids told him in school. He wanted to at least say “death to the traitor!” but he didn’t dare.

Ali’s sorrow increased day by day; the cage of his loneliness became smaller, and his world darkened more.

One night, someone threw a stone and broke their kitchen window.

Ali felt pain in place of the glass and broke like the window.

Ali told himself, “I wish I were in Mahdi’s place; in place of Hasan, Hoseyn,

Mahmoud; in place of Taqi. I wish I were in the place of anyone except myself. If I were in the place of one of them, I could sit through the night and tell others the story of how my father, mother, and brothers were taken, and hear their stories too. I could help them in building a wooden car, in fencing a cage, and in everything else.

Ali knew about the grief of being fatherless and had heard and read some things about kids who had lost their fathers, but he didn’t know about the sorrow of having a father. He was just getting to know the great sorrow of having a father. This sorrow was something very new. Nothing was written about it in any book. Before this, no one had ever said that having a father could be a source of shame.

Ali melted like snow.

He cried like a candle.

He burned like coal.

And there was nothing he could do.

***

Back then, kids hadn’t come to the grounds yet…

One morning, very early in the morning, Ali looked out the window and saw two cars that stopped at the corner of the street. Eight men got out of the cars. Ali’s eyes rounded. The men looked and acted just the way the kids had said.

Two of the men stood at the corner and the other six ran into the house.

Ali quickly thought to himself, “There is no man left in the street except my father. God, help us and send them to our house.”

The men reached in front of Ali’s house. Ali could hear his own heartbeats – like the sound of a drum, the sound of a big drum, a very big drum. His whole body was shaking.

Ali’s house was on the second floor. There were only two shops on the first floor, and in the middle of the two shops, there was a door that opened to a narrow staircase.

The men were looking up. Ali smiled. He smiled from deep down. This smile was like no other smile. Ali ran toward the door. He opened the second floor’s door. He ran down the stairs. He opened the door and stood in front of the men who had taken their guns out.

Ali smiled again.

One of the men hit Ali on the chest and threw him to the side of the staircase. Ali, in the midst of pain, smiled and said, “Do you want my father?”

One of them said, “What’s your father’s name?”

Ali said, “Mohsen! Mohsen Khan!”

The men poured into the corridor and climbed the stairs.

Ali got up and ran after them. He wanted to tell everyone the good news of their coming himself. The house’s door opened into the “big room.” Ali shouted with all his might from among the men and said, “Dad! They’ve come after you!”

One of the men hit Ali in the mouth.

Ali felt one of his teeth break and tasted the blood in his mouth, but he still smiled.

They pulled Father out of the “small room.” Father hid his head between his hands so that the blows wouldn’t hit his head.

Ali shouted, “Father! Good for you! Good for me! Good for Mother!”

Mother, just as Jafar had said, was standing in a corner, shaking; but she didn’t say “Have mercy! Have mercy!” and she didn’t cry. Ali felt that there was a sort of strange happiness in his mother’s face. Ali recognized this happiness and joy-filled his entire being.

Ali shouted again with all the might he had, “Are you taking him to jail? Are you taking him to kill him? Are you taking my father to jail?”

The men were speechless for a second. This was something very new, indeed.

This was the first chapter of a very big story. The men looked at Ali’s face which was full of blood and full of laughter, and they couldn’t say anything. There was so much happiness on Ali’s face it was as if he had been invited to the best wedding in the world…

In front of the door, beneath the hand and feet of the men, Father turned to Ali and said, “Take care of your mother, man!”

“Man”! How beautiful this word was, and how it appealed to Ali. Once more, Ali felt how much he loved his father; and realized that his mother was never lying.

***

The children and women of the street were peering over from everywhere, watching Ali’s father being taken. It was day and everything was visibly seen. It was day, a big, sunny day…

They were beating, dragging and taking Ali’s father.

Among his tears and smiles, Ali shouted, “Long live the Street of the Fighters!” and all the kids shouted too.

And this was the first chapter of a very big story…

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