Shamsi’s Memoires

From Under the Staircase: A Martyr's Journey by Farsheed Ferdowsi 

In the Summer of 2006, over the course of four months, I sat with my mother on Saturdays to write down her life story and record her memoirs. Each interview lasted an hour or two. I would usually arrive around 9 a.m., calling her from the car that I was on my way. She would receive me with her usual smile, a warm embrace, and kisses on both cheeks. We would then walk together, arm in arm, through her kitchen into the spacious den and sit on adjacent armchairs facing her television. In between the two chairs stood a glass coffee table. Expecting me, she had already placed a pot of hot Persian tea and a bowl full of California Medjool dates on the table. We would start by sipping tea, eating some dates, and exchanging pleasantries. Invariably she would inquire about my children. She had cancer that had started in her salivary glands before spreading to her lungs. Surgery to remove the cancerous glands had partially paralyzed the right side of her face. But that didn’t stop her from socializing and entertaining—what she loved most. I knew that her end was near and I hated that knowledge. Indeed, a year later she passed away and I am forever grateful that I had the privilege of listening to her life story in her own words with such minute detail. Interestingly, she shared some vignettes and events that I was not aware of until then. I have included those nuggets in this narrative where appropriate.

In one of our interviews, my mother proceeded to share some of the difficulties they faced during the war and how they managed to live with the uncertainty and daily hardship due to shortages. That there were always long lines. That there was political instability. “About three months after our marriage, Reza Shah abdicated and was forced out of the country. Then, his son, Mohammad Reza became shah.” Speaking about her daily routine in those years, she said,

During the day, while we still lived next door, when Fatollah was at work, I would often go to my parents’ house. It was a much more comfortable and inviting place to be. I would spend time with my mother cooking, sewing, or just talking. And when my father was home, I would serve him tea and he would tell me about what was happening with the war, etc.

At this point, she hesitated and then said she wished to share a secret with me. Something she had locked away in her heart and had never repeated to anyone including my father.

On one of these occasions when I was relaxing at my parents’ house, it must have been the winter of the year we married [probably late 1941 or early 1942], I asked my father to perform his astrological calculations and reveal what future held for me. I thought of it more as a game or something intriguing. He obliged and consulted his astrolabe and charts and then told me something that struck me like a knife. He said, “Dokhtar jan—dear daughter—you will have a happy life for only forty years. Beyond that is unclear.” I was stunned as I took his words in. Recognizing the shock in my face he said, “Only God knows our destiny.” Incredibly, exactly forty years after that prediction the great calamity struck our family and these savages killed your father. And with that my happiness ended.

Then, as if a burden was lifted off her shoulders she said, “You should put this in your book.”