Mehrnaz Massoudi - Never Without Love

NEVER
WITHOUT
LOVE

Copyright 2019 Mehrnaz Massoudi

Except for the use of short passages for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced, in part or in whole, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording, or any information or storage retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from the Canadian Copyright Collective Agency (Access Copyright).

Published in Canada by

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210 Founders College, York University

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We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada.

Cover design: Val Fullard

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Printed and Bound in Canada.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: Never without love : a memoir / Mehrnaz Massoudi.

Names: Massoudi, Mehrnaz, 1959 author.

Series: Inanna memoir series.

Description: Series statement: Inanna memoir series

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 2019009558X | Canadiana (ebook) 20190102780 | ISBN 9781771336376 (softcover) | ISBN 9781771336383 (epub) | ISBN 9781771336390 (Kindle) | ISBN 9781771336406 (pdf)

Subjects: LCSH: Massoudi, Mehrnaz, 1959 | CSH: Iranian Canadian womenBiography. | LCSH: ImmigrantsCanadaBiography. | LCSH: IranBiography. | LCSH: CanadaBiography. | LCGFT: Autobiographies.

Classification: LCC DS318.84 .M37 2019 | DDC 955.05/092dc23

NEVER
WITHOUT
LOVE

A MEMOIR BY

MEHRNAZ MASSOUDI

To Baba, who in spite of my imperfect body believed that only the Prince of Iran was good enough to be my husband.
To Maman, who made me believe that I, a woman living in Irans male-dominated society, could be anything that I wanted to be.

Fire

I HAVE NEVER FORGOTTEN the magic of a summer evening in Tehran. After a hot day, when the sun went down, the coolness of the evening caressed our souls. Maman would pick jasmine flowers from the thick vines that clung to the walls of our courtyard. She laid them on a pounded tin dish, already laden with Persian tea, white mulberries, plump figs, and Persian melon. The smell of the jasmine, the cool dry air, and the delicious summer fruits fed my body and soul.

On one such evening, Baba and I were alone.

Mehrnaz jan, there are so many suitors who want to come to ask for your hand. Why dont you allow them to come?

Suitors and their families judge women by their hips and the size of their breasts, Baba. I do not want to marry a man who comes here to judge my body. He doesnt know my soul. My chest is covered with scars. My breasts have deep scars. I do not have nipples. How can I allow suitors to come here?

You are beautiful. You are Babas princess. You are smart. You are the dream of every man.

Yes, until they see my naked chest.

They dont need to see your naked chest. You can wear a beautiful nightgown and keep your chest covered during lovemaking.

Baba, dont talk about this stuff. Its embarrassing. You dont understand. I want a man to fall in love with me. I want a man to touch my heart before he touches my body. I believe when a man falls in love with me he will not see my scars. If he loves me, he will love my imperfect breasts.

I was sixteen when Baba and I had this conversation. I saw myself then, and for many years afterwards, as a beauty with my clothes on, but as a beast when they were removed.

I had been placed on the dining room table. Looking up, all I could see was a doctor with giant hands talking to Baba. There is an infection under her nipples. Its better if I cut them off.

I hated the doctors big hands. They were half the size of my body. At the age of four, I didnt realize the impact this surgery would have on my life. Where did they throw my nipples? I wondered. In the kitchen garbage?

My brother Jamal and my sister Soraya loved to tease me and always ganged up on me. One morning, at breakfast, the two reached over, grabbed the two whole eggs that were in the basket on the table, and left the cracked egg for me. Hahaha, you get the cracked one, Jamal snorted.

Jamal was ten, Soraya was eight, and I was four years old. I didnt like it when they tormented me.

Mehrnaz, stop crying, Maman said, exasperated. Homa, did you get the shoes from Ms. Mohammadi for me?

Maman had gotten up that morning with swollen feet. Her shoes no longer fit her, so she had sent Homa to get her some shoes from Ms. Mohammadi, Mamans friend who had large feet. Maman was a teacher. She was getting ready to go to school.

Mehrnaz, please stop crying, Maman said again. It is only a cracked egg. Homa, make Mehrnaz a boiled egg, then get her ready and take her to school.

I loved going to school so I could stay with Maman in her classroom. And I was proud when a student from another classroom had come to ask Maman if I could be sent to the grade four classroom. The teacher of that classroom wanted me to demonstrate prayers to the class. I was happy to recite the prayers in front of the older children at school. I was very young to have memorized the prayers already, and the teachers and the principal always praised me for it. Muslims pray five times a day, and students are taught the prayers during religious study.

That day, when my brother and sister left for school, I stayed home with Homa and Fati. Fati was the new cook. She was grumpy, and she never left the kitchen. Since my egg was cracked, Homa was going to prepare another one for meshe did not want to ask Fati to cook itand then she would take me to school afterwards.

Homa had come to our house as a servant to take care of me when I was born. At the time, we lived in Qazvin, an ancient capital of the Persian Empire, where Maman was from. When Maman was young, she had spent the summers with her parents in the mountainous village of Zavardasht in the Province of Qazvin. Zavardasht is located at a high elevation, and summer temperatures are cooler there than in Qazvin City.

The people of Zavardasht respected Maman, and they eagerly sent their children to our house to be our servants. Buses or cars could not reach the villagepeople travelled only on horses. As a seven-year-old girl, Homa had been tied onto a horse and sent to our house. Maman said that the horses were trained to do this. Homas parents needed the money.

Homa prepared another egg for me on a heater. After I ate, she showed me how to blow out the fire from the top, instead of turning down the supply of oil to the heater. I tried to blow the fire out, but my face got hot.

Homa left to go and get something. I got a little closer to the heater to try again, but my nightgown caught fire. Homa ran into the room when she heard my screams. She tried to put out the fire, but it only got larger and more ferocious.

Babas office was down the hall. He could hear me screaming, but at first he thought I was playing. Then he ran into the room and gasped when he saw me. I was a ball of fire. When Baba arrived, Homa ran away and hid. Baba quickly put out the fire. But by then, all the skin on my chest and arms was badly burned.