Page 13 of Choke

Ari places her hand on her heart and exclaims in shock, “You’ve always been accepted.”

I laugh nervously. “I don’t mean to sound so dramatic. Many non-Iranian people have been welcome and loving additions to my life. I mean, look at my large, unconventional extended family.”

“I know. Girl, you have five smokin’ hot brothers-in-law. How did both your siblings end up in polyamorous relationships with the most attractive people? Even Cyrus is an exquisite man despite his scars.”

My lips turn up at Ari’s comment. It’s so rare to see religious people being okay with my siblings’ lifestyles. Ari talks about it like it’s a beautiful thing. And it is. The amount of love I have in my life because of these unions is a true blessing.

“What I mean is, you can’t deny who you are forever,” I clarify. “Eventually, it all catches up with you. I don’t think we can truly know who we are if we oppose the things that form us. Iran molded me. Iranians nurtured me. What I do now is because of the brand that country left on my soul.”

“How so?” Ari asks.

“My oldest memory is of a young boy, no older than four or five, with pleading eyes and dirt-smudged cheeks, begging for money on the bustling streets of Tehran. At the time, I was unaware of the country’s destitution, nor did I care. I was a six-year-old girl, not yet familiar with the true brutality my country hid. Little did I know that those careless years would soon end abruptly.”

“Yek toman, dari?” the boy asked.

He only wanted a dollar, but my Baba gave me that money to buy myself a sweet. To a six-year-old girl who was in the habit of being treated like a princess and had everything she wanted, giving up my sweets to this boy seemed like the worst travesty to have befallen me.

My gaze moved from the money in my palm to the boy’s outstretched hand to his thin frame.

His body was the most haunting. Thin arms and legs covered by skin. His clothes were tattered, and he smelled like he hadn’t bathed in a while.

I’d heard my parents whisper about the beggar children and how they were beaten if they didn’t meet their quota. I blinked back the tears that threatened, unsure if they were for the boy or the pending loss of returning home without the sugar I craved.

“Mona!” my mother shouted as she barreled toward me. She appeared angry. She was frowning, and her hands trembled. My mother was seldom angry unless she was frightened.

At that moment, I had to decide what to do before my mother reached us. I hurriedly placed the money in the boy’s hand and ran toward her.

My parents didn’t ask me questions that day or even that night when they tucked me in. But as I closed my eyes in the safety of my bed, under a warm blanket with a full stomach, the image of the boy’s face lingered in my mind.

I didn’t understand how I could be so comfortable while he suffered. That was the day I realized the brutality of the world and its callous, unjust nature.

“Damn, Mona. That’s intense.”

“Yeah. I’ve never forgotten that little boy’s eyes, and I don’t think I ever will. There’s something haunting about eyes consumed by hunger. They have a way of pulling you under until you suffocate in the depths of their sadness. Don’t get me wrong, there were times when I was a selfish little shit. I took everything for granted and thought life was so unfair because I had to wear Azadeh’s hand-me-downs instead of getting the trendiest outfits. When I think back on it now, I can’t help but feel shame about it.”

“You were a kid. That’s normal. Teenagers are little shits. Hormones, you know?”

“I’d like to blame it on that, but I was ungrateful. An extreme brat. I didn’t even realize how good I had it until my mother died. Looking back now, I’d give anything to have been a littlekinder. It couldn’t have been easy for my mom. A new country, a single mom, three kids. While she struggled to keep us healthy and fed, I was upset about not having new shoes.”

We fall quiet for a moment before Ari asks, “How is it going at the shelter?”

I welcome the shift in conversation. Discussing my feelings about Iran is both freeing and depressing.

“I love it. It’s great to make a difference in people’s lives. Switching from policy to outreach is the best decision I’ve made. I feel like I’m making tangible changes now and positively affecting lives. Those who come into the shelter seem to trust me, and I never want them to regret that decision. The people I work with say I’ll eventually become hardened to it, but I don’t see that happening. If I can help one person, it’s all worth it.”

Ari smiles. “That’s great, Mona.” She shifts in her seat, leaning toward me to whisper, “Why does that guy in the glasses keep looking over here?”

Ari’s words are heavy punches to my gut because sometimes I feel like someoneiswatching me. My therapist thinks it’s PTSD, but it’s more than that. When I attempt to discuss my trauma with anyone, even my sister, an icy dread seeps into my bones, leaving me speechless. I think people are staring at me, seeing a paranoid, irrational woman. Yet even when I try to shake it all off as a residual effect of being held captive, I can’t ignore the twist in my gut. It’s hard to explain. It’s like the soft brush of a palm against my flesh or a warm breath teasing the back of my neck. It’s a lingering scent in the air: clean, sharp, and familiar. A warm wind carrying a memory.

It’s not constant. I don’t go through my day in a state of paranoia. It’s fleeting moments when I swear someone is watching me.

At times I even pondered if it was paranoia, but then the deliveries started coming.

Random grocery orders or food delivery. Initially, I was hesitant to eat anything, but the reputation of the delivery company put my mind at ease.

I should have been fearful, but the first order, containing Iranian items like saffron, cardamom tea, rose water, basmati rice, and herbs, made me feel warm and nurtured. Whoever sent it knew I was Persian.

Each package since has felt like a ghost of my mother wrapping me in comfort, feeding parts of me I didn’t know were starving.

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