The Ungrateful Refugee. Dina Nayeri

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СКАЧАТЬ their door to congratulate the family on their acquisition. The congratulations were heartier when there was a soccer match on. Soon the first washing machine came to the village, and fridges began to pop up through the town. The family acquired these things slowly and faithfully, and life became more varied and enjoyable. There was time for river hikes and snowy mountain games in their four-season village, and Kaweh began to travel to competitions for table tennis and soccer.

      The prohibition on Kurdish continued to baffle him. He wanted to read the magazines his brothers read. He didn’t want to speak to his teachers in Farsi. Every morning he woke to his father listening to the BBC and Voice of America for the news. That’s how he learned of the Kurdistan Democratic Party of Iran (KDPI), the progressive rebels operating just outside Iran, beyond the Iraqi border, who fought for Kurdish rights and self-rule, and whose leaders were regularly hanged in town squares. He had seen preparations of the crane and the gallows, the public announcement: “We have arrested so-and-so, a traitor. He will be executed today.” The regime had declared holy war on KDPI, and thousands were slaughtered. Once, a local man was hanged, his feet tied with a rope and his body dragged by a car through the town, as a warning against joining the party.

      When Kaweh was eleven, KDPI leader Sadegh Sharafkandi was famously assassinated by Iranian operatives in the Mykonos Restaurant in Berlin. Sharafkandi’s predecessor, Abdul Rahman Ghassemlou, a hero for Kurdish autonomy, had been murdered in 1989 in Vienna. Both men were buried at Père Lachaise in Paris. This second assassination created much noise in Paveh and greater Kurdistan. Did the Iranian authorities carry it out? For years, the story sat heavily on Kurdish hearts until in 1997 a German court issued an international arrest warrant for the Iranian intelligence minister responsible.

      By the time Kaweh was seventeen, his private anger at the treatment of the Kurds had peaked, and he found inspiration and purpose in the stories of his political heroes. One day, Kaweh’s cousin, Sattar, a studious boy his age and a known prodigy in math, physics, and the Koran, suggested that they run away to join the party and fight for Kurdish rights. “Let’s present ourselves. If we’re good, they will send us to Europe to study. We can fight for something good.” Kaweh agreed. At home, tensions were high. He told his parents he was going away for a week to compete in table tennis, and his cousin was going for an academic competition.

      “Where is the competition?” his mother asked at dinner. The boys had agreed that they couldn’t cross into Iraq from Paveh, since everyone knew them there. They chose another border town.

      “Marivan,” said Kaweh, thinking of how little he could carry in an overnight bag and what he’d have to leave behind. “I’ll be gone for a week.”

      •

       Kambiz lived in a northern Iranian province close to Kaweh’s. If Kaweh was in the front part of a west-facing cat’s neck, then Kambiz was on its back, due east, in Shomal, where people came to hike and ski the Alborz, or swim and eat fish from the Caspian Sea. His mother had spent her life competing with her sister-in-law. Every time that sister’s children brought home an honor or a good grade or a sports win, Kambiz’s mother said, “Kambiz jan, you must get into university and make your mother proud. Show us some talent. Don’t shame me in front of my sister-in-law.”

       Kambiz thought maybe he’d become an electrical engineer. He sat in his room and tinkered with gadgets, old phones and radios. He was decent at math, physics. But his mother’s daily pleas exhausted him. Sometimes, he stared at his mother’s spices and thought, Why is it so low a calling to create pleasure out of chicken thighs and a basketful of ground-up roots?

      •

      At the border, a man told Kaweh and Sattar where to go, what Iraqi village to aim for, and where to find the KDPI (they were headquartered in Koy Sanjaq). “If you cross tomorrow,” he said, “I can meet you on the other side, in Penjwen.”

      But later that day at the border, guards stopped and questioned them. Sattar told them that they were visiting family for a day. When they asked for “a sweet” to wave them through, Sattar pulled out their money. “We have to forget about our bags and cross now,” he whispered to Kaweh. “People on day visits don’t bring bags.”

      They crossed into Penjwen. They had only enough to pay for one boy’s travel permits. Since Kaweh looked young, they bought one for Sattar. At the first stop their bus was boarded by Peshmerga officers, and Kaweh was arrested. Vowing to find each other, Sattar continued on to Koy Sanjaq. Kaweh spent the next hour convincing the officers that he was just a boy visiting his uncle. He had nothing with him, no money, no clothes. A young Peshmerga said, “Come on, he’s a poor kid going to see his family for Nowruz.”

      Hours later, Kaweh arrived at the headquarters. “I’m here to join the party,” he said. Just as he was asking if Sattar had arrived, a car pulled up and out came his cousin. The boys rushed at each other, laughing and hugging. And the man in front said, “You are very welcome here.”

      Their early days were spent in screenings and interviews—were these boys sent by Iranian intelligence? Had they thought this decision through? The party members were surprised by Kaweh’s knowledge of Kurdish literature and history, despite his near illiteracy in Kurdish. When the party members were satisfied, the boys spent a month in Acceptance, a room of beds for forty men waiting to enter a two-month course.

      One day, during the waiting period, their mothers arrived and were given ten minutes in a visitor’s room with their sons. They wore black chadors, their faces tear-streaked and flushed. They kissed both boys and listened as two young party members, accustomed to the arrival of frantic mothers, gave instructions and sat in the corner of the room. “We are only present to ensure no party information is exchanged,” they said—but the boys could decide for themselves. No one was forcing them to leave or stay.

      “We looked in all the hospitals in Iran,” said Kaweh’s mother, wiping her face with her chador. “Someone saw you at the border and told us you had probably done this. Just tell them you’re going home.”

      Kaweh shook his head. “I’m not going home.”

      Hands shaking, she pinched his leg, squeezing so hard, he bruised. No one spoke for a while; they listened as Kaweh’s mother cried, as Sattar’s mother made rational speeches about the good they could do for the party if they had university degrees. After ten minutes, the mothers were escorted out. They telephoned again, demanding to speak to the boys since they were underage. When Sattar took a long call from his father, Kaweh knew his cousin’s resolve was weakening, but he couldn’t go with him. He had political dreams, a drive to be part of something important.

      Sattar returned with the family, crying all the way home. He was accepted for physics at Kermanshah University. He finished his degree, began his master’s, then gave up science to start a chicken factory. He blamed the rigor, claimed he couldn’t keep up, but rumors spread that he had been frightened by assassinations of top scientists working on Iran’s nuclear program. Iranian physicists were targets for Israeli assassins and Iranian intelligence; how long would a top scientist with a history of joining a dissident group last? In the end, Sattar chose peace, safety, and family.

      •

       Kambiz met a woman. He met her for tea and thought, maybe some good will come of this. He had no desire to compete with his cousins. He would start a business, have a family, make his own happiness. He hated the war and the excesses of the revolution. He wrote two articles under an assumed name, both for small local publications. His mother kept digging in about his cousins’ accomplishments, asking about Kambiz’s plans. The only way to quiet her was distraction. “Maman, will you teach me to cook ghorme sabzi?” “Why should you need that?” she’d say. “You’ll marry and your wife will СКАЧАТЬ