Burning Up

The harsh December rain rapped insistently against the tall palladian window overlooking the busy streets of 1981 Paris, like the rumbling of a bizarre force demanding to be let in. Each drop pierced the girl’s senses, the girl who lay asleep in the small twin bed beneath its thundering. She laid atop the covers, drenched in sweat, even though the cold December air seeped steadily through the aged wood of the window’s frame. The girl felt the approaching inclination of wakening, yet could not decide which she preferred; to remain asleep or to confront the dreary Parisian morning. Ultimately, she chose to remain in bed, to dream a little while longer. But the girl hadn’t dreamt in some weeks, since her appearance in France to live with her aunt Ziba. Falling asleep was easy enough, but each night was met with the consistent blackness devoid of all Being. Although it might have seemed strange, a small part of her knew that these were the doings of her own making, to finally rest without the mounting stimuli of her newfound Parisian life, while keeping out the nightmares of her past. 

As she enlisted sleep, the rain came down harder. The girl felt droplets strike her forehead as a thunderstruck lit the room with a dim white glow. The girl was pummeled through the black behind her eyelids, as she struck ground with an alarming thud. The darkness escaped around her like a fog being lifted, as she now stood in the center of her bedroom. But the walls were no longer adorned with her aunt’s portraits of Muslim women sewing rugs, in fact, they were altogether gone. The remaining bricks were scattered across the ground, like a grecian ruin. Her bed was covered in soot, and the rain had mixed with a black snow, inking the ground with wet ash. In the distance, she could hear the echoes of faint bombs dropping from tall heights. 

In the corner of the room were the remnants of a square piano, which she recalled had a sticky key on C sharp. She scaled over the bricks towards it. She climbed over fragments of clothes, paintings, and a lone teddy bear with a missing eye. The broken cement she balanced upon was loose, which she noted just before stopping curiously to remove a lone piece of rebar. She pulled it out confidently, even though she knew what would be on the other side. It emerged from the rubble stubbornly, it’s hidden half now showing the glossy maroon finish it had concealed so well. No matter how much she didn’t want to keep pulling, it was no use; her arm had a mind of its own. Suddenly, a bruised and bloodied hand grasped the rod, tugging it back into the depths of the gray pile, but the girl couldn’t let go. She couldn’t let go. The girl screamed as she sat boltright in her twin bed, with the rain now gone and a faint chirping of birds filling the air with beams of golden light around her bedroom in France. That was her first dream in six months.

“Azar! Azar! Biah Injah, come out! Breakfast is ready.” 

Azar, coated in a thick film of sweat, looked at the analog clock beside her, realizing she had slept in over forty-five minutes, and hurriedly jumped out of bed to begin getting ready for school. She would deal with the dream later, she thought. 

Life in Paris wasn’t as romantic as the movies made it out to be. 

For one, the French language was harsh and lazy. Each vowel turned over the other like they were talking with naan in their mouth. Azar really couldn’t see what the appeal was, and preferred the more eloquent enunciation of her Mother Tongue, Farsi. But Ziba insisted that they talk in French as much as possible, so that Azar could learn the language quicker. Her newfound stutter made it even harder to speak in Farsi, let alone in French. Azar tried using this as an excuse with her aunt, which lasted about a week. After that, any time she responded to her aunt’s French in Farsi, she was met with the intimidating Glare of Ziba, forcing her hand to use the ugly language more. 

The second problem with France was the food. French food was bland and indelicate, absent of the comforting seasonings of Persian cuisine. Because of this, Azar learned quite quickly that she had to carry a small spice jar of sumac with her wherever she went, otherwise she wouldn’t eat anything at all without making a face (much to her aunt’s amusement, and yet, was still met with another Glare of Ziba)

Third, was the people; the French were a stuck-up and cold bunch, too proud to be happy,  and too boring to be depressed in Azar’s opinion. The adults acted like their koh didn’t stink, and their kids weren’t much better. Her peers at school walked around like they owned the place, but that could have also been because Azar was technically a refugee, she didn’t belong there. They frequently commented on her nose, complained to the teachers that her food smelled funny during lunch, and mocked her stutter. But they were all a bunch of akhmaq ha as far as Azar was concerned, so she happily kept her distance.

Azar was probably the only Persian she knew who disliked France, and could think of a hundred reasons why she didn’t like the place, but she could think of a thousand reasons why she had to leave home to begin with. At one point, she remembered being enamored by Paris, but that was a different time. Now, the place felt like a shadow land of the distant memories of her past. It was an unfortunate coincidence that her aunt happened to live in the worst city in the world. 

But what Azar couldn’t complain about was Ziba’s cooking, which was so delicious it was practically magical. She followed the sweet smells of the homemade cinnamon honey oatmeal and fresh naan to the kitchen, where her aunt was cooking their usual breakfast. On the round kitchen table was a bowl of pomegranates, another of small Persian grapes that Ziba got every Sunday at the local market, and a plate of sabzeh; mint and basil with radishes, walnuts, and feta. 

“Sobh bekheir Ziba-Joon,” Azar announced as she sat down at the table.

“Nah! We speak French here Azar knanoom, it’s bonjour, to you,” her aunt replied. 

Azar didn’t really care for the language, but did find it convenient that hello and good morning were the same word. Nevertheless, she snapped back, saying, “Well you di-did call me khanoom, so am I-I the only one that ca-can’t speak fa-farsi? I thought that ki-kind of hypocri-critical dicta-tator-torship was why I left Iran in the fir-first place.” 

Her aunt, clearly seething, bit her tongue and said calmly, “Now Azar, you know I have no problem with us using Persian words of endearment towards each other. You yourself called me Ziba-Joon just now, I wouldn’t expect you to change what you’ve called me all your life just because we live somewhere else.” 

Azar, unsatisfied with her aunt’s collected response, was about to test Ziba’s new patience, but her aunt was much faster. 

“And don’t get smart with me, little lady! Just because I can be nice every once in a while doesn’t mean I’m not still your guardian. Treat your elders with respect, and you may just leave here with a full belly and packed lunch, that is, unless I change my mind.”

Unfortunately for Azar, that was a punishment she was not willing to take. No matter how angry she was with her aunt, she could never willingly pass up her cooking. But even though she hadn’t rebutted, her aunt was still looking at her with a full plate of food in hand, and that terrible Glare of Ziba. 

Azar tried waiting as long as she could, but reluctantly gave up, too hungry to fight. “D’accord, oh-okay! I’m sor-sorry Ziba-Joon, I shouldn’t have sna-snapped at you. Can I please have my fuh-food now?” She even batted her eyes for good measure. 

It wasn’t the heartfelt apology that she wanted, but Ziba yielded and placed the plate in front of Azar, unable to deny a hungry child their food, no matter how snippy they were. And afterall, she thought, Azar’s been through more than any person should have to endure. 

Late for school, Azar ate her food as fast as she could and ran out the front door after giving her aunt two kisses on the cheeks and a merci. She was glad at least some words were the same between the two languages. 

She made it to her stop just in time for the 8 o’clock bus. As the doors opened, the driver simply nodded at Azar, knowing after however many months he had been driving the girl around that she would not return the greeting. Azar walked past him without a second thought, plopping down in an aisle seat in the back. The ride was relatively short, but Azar still reached for her walkman to listen to her Def Leppard cassette for a few minutes.

School was just the same as every day: boring and cruel. The day began with French Literature, next Mathematics, then Science. It was now lunch time, and Azar was seated at the same lone table in the back corner of the cafeteria with her walkman and the meal her aunt had prepared for her. Azar developed a complicated relationship with food since having moved to France. She loved the sweet waft of adas polo that came when she opened her thermos, but the other kids didn’t find it as agreeable. Even though she had learned early on to sit at the table furthest away from the cluster of her peers, they still complained about the smell of her food; if not to her, then to their parents and teachers. So much so that the school kindly offered their advice to Ziba on which lunch boxes were the best at keeping the foreign stench in. 

Of course, Ziba, being who she is, cursed them off in Farsi with a smile on her face that told them exactly what she meant – that she was not a woman to be trifled with. 

As Azar wondered which one of the popular kids was going to come and confront her today, she looked up to find instead, arguably worse, Ms. Zarrabi. 

Ms. Zarrabi was the History teacher at Lycée Alain Secondary School, and she also happened to be Persian. Or at least, she was born there. She and her parents had moved to France when she was a child, and she’s been here ever since. She would often try to connect with Azar, who suspected that the school officials had put her up to it once they heard they would be having an Iranian student joining in the middle of the school year. Ms. Zarrabi had a warm disposition, and had won teacher of the year every year since she started working at Lycée Alain. But for Azar, she saw her much differently. Every olive branch Ms. Zarrabi extended felt like a thorn in her side. Every sincere smile was a patronizing jab at Azar’s misfortune. Whenever she spoke of Iran, it made Azar’s blood boil. What did this khah-en know about Iran, the last time she was there was decades before the war. What right did she have to her country? To her people? The way Azar saw it, they couldn’t be more different. 

“Bonjour Azar! How are you today?”

Without looking up, Azar replied, “Well, it wa-was going quite well uh-up until now. I hadn’t been bo-bothered once for a cha-cha-change. But then something ha-happened — I’m eat-eating my food in pea-peace, and then I-I look uh-up and all of a sudden, I see something so disgust-gust-ing that I lose my app-appetite,” and pushed her meal away from her. 

Ms. Zarrabi just stared blankly at her, unsure whether to reprimand her or walk away. Instead, she smiles, and says, “well, that doesn’t sound good. Hopefully your aunt won’t be too disappointed when she sees you haven’t eaten your lunch. Have a good day Azar, and I am here if you ever need to talk.” 

Azar muttered “I won’t,” under her breath, but Ms. Zarrabi was already walking away. 

The school day flew by, mostly because Azar was too tired to pay any attention. The teachers pitied her, and often let her sleep during class. Before she knew it, the final bell rang and it was time to go home. As Azar began to pick up her things, she heard a loud bang from behind her. She froze, as terror swept across her face. She saw clearly that she was still in her Economics classroom, but her body floated between Tehran and Lycée Alain. She could hear distant screams behind her, and the faint sound of a plane flying near. Her body went rigid and cold, her face began to tingle as if thousands of sewing needles were pricking her one by one. Maman, Baba, Moji… their names pounded in her head as she turned around to find them. What she found instead was a group of young boys laughing at her. The short one picked up an Economics Textbook from the ground, clearly embarrassed that he had caused her any harm. But the others just laughed, oblivious that with a simple book they had sent Azar straight back to Hell on Earth. She wanted to strangle them. She wanted to hurt them. The next was all a blur, but afterwards her knuckles were red. One of the boys had fallen to the floor, and the others were tending to him. The teacher came soon after, seeing the boy on the floor and Azar standing over him.

“What happened here??” 

“Without flinching, Azar pointed to the short boy who dropped the book in the first place. “I heard a cuh-commosh-commotion, and found them fight-fighting.” The boys looked up at her in disbelief, but were more afraid of the school finding out that their friend got beaten up by a girl than one of them getting in trouble. They all nodded their heads in agreement, and Azar slipped out before the teacher could ask any more questions. She grabbed her books and headed straight for the door, through the hallway, down the stairs, and didn’t stop until she felt the fresh air and sun on her cheeks.

She listened to ACDC the whole bus ride home. She was shaking vigorously, and was sure that people could tell something was wrong, and yet no one approached her. The bus driver might have said a few words, asked if she was okay, but she couldn’t remember. Before her stop, she stood up and headed straight for the door. Before the driver could ask once again if she was alright, Azar was already out the door. She flew up the stairs to the apartment, walked straight past Ziba and flung herself on the bed after locking the door to her bedroom. 

She was still shaking, but at least she was safe. No, not safe, whatever had happened in that classroom was anything but safe. The paranoia was creeping up her spine like dust, lost in a limbo between war and her bedroom. She didn’t know how long she had been laying there before she started to hyperventilate. She sat up, trying to catch her breath, and caught the eye of the woman in her aunt’s painting. She was beautiful; she had olive skin, dark eyes, rosy cheeks, and blood red lips. She was focused on her needlework as she sewed intricate designs into a Persian rug. Azar hated this painting. It made her sick. And it was all because of the dark blue hijab that covered her hair. Azar grew up somewhat religious, her family would occasionally go to the Mosque for special occasions, celebrate the holidays, but Azar hadn’t prayed since she was a little girl, back when she still believed in a God worthy of being worshiped. 

Although she was impartial to religion before, it has since grown to disgust. The Islamic Regime were responsible for the instigation of the Iraq bombings. Azar didn’t blame them, if she were in their shoes, she would probably do everything she could to prevent Khomeini’s backwards ideologies of Islam from escaping its ground zero. But at what cost? The lives of her Maman? Her Baba? Her sister Moji? It was wrong what they did, but what Khomeini did was worse. He led a revolution that was grounded in hatred, misogyny, and violence. They were taught to praise Martyrs in the name of the Islamic Regime; that they would go to heaven with their 72 virgins, all they had to do was die. It was barbaric, and an insult to Islam. Even though she knew what Khomeini preached was a lie, she couldn’t help but hate the source; the religion. She despised that painting of the woman in her bedroom, she couldn’t bear to look at it. But Ziba was Muslim, and she had to pay her respects to her elders, blah blah blah. The paranoia that was once bubbling inside her transformed into a loathing so foul she felt like she might puke. A sudden knocking came from outside the door, and Azar stifled a scream. 

“Mahshahlla? How are you? Is everything alright?” Her aunt spoke through the wooden door.

“Everythi-thing is fine! I’m fi-fine, sto-ahp your wor-wor-worrying!” Azar managed to get out.

“You rushed past me, didn’t even say bonjour, I think I know when something is wrong. You can talk to me!”

“Ziba…” Azar tried to keep her cool, she knew her aunt was trying to care for her, but she just couldn’t help herself.

She bellowed with rage as she ran up to the painting and clawed at it, ripping it to shreds. She was done. Done with trying to assimilate, with pretending everything was okay, that tomorrow, and next, and the day after, her family would still be dead in an unmarked grave, that nobody understood or ever would, the pain that follows a child with a home and no way to return to it. 

“Azar? AZAR?!” Ziba cried out. She could hear the screeches on the other side of the door. 

“You want to kn-know how I’m do-doing?? Do you want to kn-know what I thi-think of your stu-stupid religion? HERE —” Azar unlocked the door with the ripped painting in hand, and thrusted it into Ziba’s chest. Her aunt looked startled, scared. It was a look she wasn’t prepared to face, but she didn’t care. “TAKE YOUR ISLAM. TAKE YOUR QURAN. I’M DONE.” It was the first time in a long time she didn’t stutter, but she couldn’t feel pride. She could only feel pain. 

She slammed the door in Ziba’s face, shaking with rage, and went back to the bed. She put on her headphones to drown out her aunt’s preaching, and before she knew it, she was asleep. She eventually opened her eyes, to a room clouded in darkness. She averted her gaze to the window, noticing that it was already past dusk, and the full moon was shining brightly upon her floor. She couldn’t believe she had been asleep for so long, but there was something even more disturbing than that; In the middle of her room were three outlines of people. She could just barely make them out, like when your eyes get blurry after a long, deep, sleep and you’re trying your best to see clearly. 

The figures began approaching her, but Azar wasn’t afraid. Their appearance was a relief, but she didn’t know why. They felt familiar. The closer they got, the better their image became. The taller figure developed a thick mustache, the middle one had a short black bob, and the smallest, who was barely four feet tall, had two pigtails and a teddy bear with one eye in hand. 

The middle ghost spoke first. “My Joonam, my sweet baby, how you have changed. Your soul is darkened, your eyes sunken, your heart broken, you live a living death.” 

“Maman? Is that you?” Azar was so happy she could cry. But before she could ask any more questions, the tall ghost spoke. “Baché, my baby girl. This life is yours. You must let us go if you wish to live. Let go, but never forget. There is a way to keep love, anger, and sadness in your heart.” 

The little girl spoke next. “Abji, big sister, be sad, be happy, be angry. Mourn us, grieve us, you miss us, but you do not think upon us. Think upon us Abji, think upon your family.”

They began inching towards her, and the closer they got, Azar could see the burn marks on their arms, the blood-red color of their skin, their ripped clothes, and blackened fingernails. Azar was now afraid. Afraid of the family she loved so much. 

“You see us this way because of your rage. Your fiery, restless spirit has kept us from healing, from moving on. You cannot change the past, but you can forgive it. Mashallah, be at peace. Think upon us as we were, and always will be, loving you” her father said.

“Thing upon us,” spoke her mother.

“Think upon us,” said her little sister.

“Think upon us,” repeated her father. 

Azar was confused, she thought she was supposed to be vengeful, to pursue the vendetta that was born the day her family died. She thought that was what they wanted, no, that was what she wanted. That was what she craved. She pushed away their death and those she loved so that she didn’t have to face the reality of her world, a world without her favorite people. A world where she couldn’t fly from herself or this life. Although Khomeini was the true killer, she was the only one who kept her family in this state. In a way, she was a murderer too. All at once, the feelings she had bottled up for six months came rushing to her like a flood. She didn’t have to say it, the ghosts already knew her choice. Azar began to weep an endless stream of tears, as she  felt the warm embrace of her family. She thought they’d be cold, like in the movies, but they were anything but. All she could feel was love. “Divoonatam, I love you so so much, I’m so sorry. Please, please forgive me.” 

But there was no response. She could feel them, but they didn’t reply. Instead, she heard the voice of her aunt as she said, “It’s okay Joonam, of course I forgive you. I know how hard this has been, I only wish I could make it better.”

Azar opened her eyes, and her family was gone. Or at least, their ghosts. She was now wrapped tightly in Ziba’s arms, and felt more love and joy to see her aunt’s face than the day she arrived in France. She didn’t mention the dream, or if that’s all it really was, and chose to stay in this moment, to mourn her family, and to forgive. To forgive the bullies, Ms. Zarrabi, Ziba, and Islam. She couldn’t bring herself to forgive Khomeini just yet, but maybe one day she would. This moment was all that mattered for now, and she would make sure to always, always, always, think upon her family. Not with fiery indignation, but with kindness, love, and remembrance.