Taking Cover: One Girl's Story of Growing Up During the Iranian Revolution. National Kids Geographic

      “Yes. That was my mother.”

      The thought of Maman and Nima made me want to cry.

      “Where is she from?” Driver Crow asked.

      “She is from France.”

      “That explains it!” Backseat Crow said. “All Western women are whores. And you are the child of a whore. No wonder you prance around the streets baring your whole body for every man to see.”

      All the Crows laughed.

      We reached Shahrak, a neighborhood where many houses and buildings were under construction. It couldn’t have taken us more than 10 minutes to get there, but it felt like hours. I knew this area because my father had driven us around here. Baba thought it would be nice for our family to move to this developing part of Tehran.

      The jeep turned into a deserted street with several cement trucks and cranes parked along the side. Driver Crow slowed down.

      “Which one was it again?” she squawked.

      “The brick one on the right, with the brown garage door.”

      We pulled into an apartment building garage. There were no other cars.

      Backseat Crow pushed me out of the jeep and led me up one flight of stairs. The smell of fresh paint made me light-headed. The hallway windows still had adhesive tape to prevent the glass from shattering. It dawned on me that nobody was around, neither in this building nor in neighboring ones. Being midday, the construction workers must have been either napping at home or having lunch breaks off-site.

      One of the Crows knocked on a door and a new Black Crow opened it.

      “We have another one,” Backseat Crow said. “Is the room free?”

      “Yes.”

      Backseat Crow pulled me inside. The apartment was empty except for some white metal garden furniture in the center of the living room. The large window to the right of the doorway was covered with thick black curtains, slightly open at the center. It was so bright outside that the whole room was illuminated by that narrow slit.

      My eyes scanned the room for any signs of torture devices. Nothing. I could smell tea from a samovar in the kitchen to the left. From behind, someone pushed me into one of the hard metal chairs. The same person then dug her hands into both my arms with such force that my fingers tingled from the lack of circulation.

      Three Black Crows entered the living room and sat at the table. I didn’t recognize any of them from the car. They must have already been in the apartment. Invisible Crow kept me pinned in place.

      “What’s your name?” Crow No. 1 asked.

      “Nioucha.”

      “Nioucha?” Crow No. 2 repeated.

      “Yes.”

      “Do you know what your name means?” she asked. Invisible Crow dug deeper into my arms.

      “No.”

      I stared at the table. Of course I knew the meaning of my name, but I didn’t want to have a conversation with them.

      “‘Nioucha’ means someone who listens.” I was surprised she knew this. Very few people knew the origin or meaning of my name. “Are you a good listener?”

      “I try.”

      I barely recognized my own voice. The three Black Crows from the car entered the room.

      “You should have seen how she was walking in the streets,” Backseat Crow said. She joined the others around the table. “Everything was out for the whole world to see!”

      I stared harder at the table. My arms felt bloated, like a million ants had crawled under my skin and were struggling to find a way out.

      “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” Crow No. 1 said. I looked at her. I was surprised to see how pretty she was, especially her long eyelashes.

      “No.”

      “What?” It was Frontseat Crow. “We can’t hear you!”

      “No, I don’t.” I tried to keep my voice steady.

      “Let’s lock her up for a while,” Crow No. 2 said. “We’ll decide later what to do with her.”

      “Wait!” I said.

      “What?”

      “Can I call my mother?”

      “No.”

      “Please?”

      “No! No calls are allowed,” Backseat Crow said.

      Invisible Crow released her grip on my arms. Instantly, the ants scattered. Crow No. 1 dragged my chair aside with such force that I was nearly flung forward. She punched my arm as a signal for me to get up. I did. She pushed me and I fell across the table. Everyone laughed.

      “Put her in the back room,” said Crow No. 2, the one with the really raspy voice. “I have someone else in the front room.”

      I pulled myself off the table. Backseat Crow took my wrist and yanked me to a room at the end of the hall. She opened the door and shoved me inside.

      “Make yourself at home,” she said.

      She closed the door. I heard her lock it and remove the key. I glanced at my watch: 4:37 p.m. I rubbed my arms where I could feel the fingernail indentations through my sleeves. I looked around the bare room. The walls were white, with dirty finger marks everywhere. Black curtains covered a small window, and a bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling. I pulled the curtains aside to discover that the window was barred. I tried to open it for some air, but it was sealed shut with tar. Looking out across the dirt road, all I could see was a building still under construction.

      The room smelled of stale urine and sweat. The floor was carpeted, light gray with dark stains. I gagged. My legs almost gave way, but I didn’t want to sit down and absorb a stranger’s urine. I didn’t even want to lean on the walls; the finger marks were disgusting. I hovered near the window, my hands in my pockets.

      I thought about Maman, and immediately tears welled up in my eyes. I knew how sick with worry she must be. But I wasn’t going to cry here. That’s what they wanted, and I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Those pathetic people. How could showing a bit of my neck and arm make me a whore?

      What had happened to the Iran I had loved so much?

       CHAPTER 2

       REVOLUTION

       1979

       Ze gahvare ta gur danesh bejooy

      — Persian proverb

      Seek knowledge from cradle to the grave

      Everything started going wrong when I was eight years old. It wasn’t just on the streets of Tehran, but also at home, with math homework—which, let me just say in plain language, I hated more than anything else in the world. I remember one day in particular when I sat at my desk, struggling and fuming over another impossible math problem. Maman kept trying to help me, but she was a math genius. I, for some lame reason, had not inherited that gene from her.

      “Let’s try this one more time,” Maman said. “If Reza reads forty pages of his book in one day, how many pages has he read in five days?”

      “I don’t know,” I said.

      I was on the verge of tears from frustration and humiliation.

      “It’s a multiplication problem, right?” Maman said. “You need to multiply forty by…?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “It’s