Free After Tehran by Marina Nemat Page A

had such a difficult past. They said, as well, that they didn’t know Iran had so many political prisoners and treated them so badly. When I told them that the majority of the prisoners had been teenagers, they wanted to know why, and I explained to them that if you wanted to control a country, you had to control its young generation. If you tortured and executed teenagers, not only would the rest of them get the message, but their parents, too, would refrain from criticizing the government, realizing the high price of dissidence.
    I took a copy of the
Sunday Star
to my father. I had told him I was writing a memoir. I explained that the article in the paper was a summary of what had happened to me in Evin. He put the paper on his kitchen table and began telling me about one of his neighbours who was moving to a nursing home because she had become too weak to care for herself. My father was not ready to acknowledge my past. I had to give him time.
    About two weeks later, I phoned my father and asked him if he had read the article. He said he had not and changed the subject. I had expected Alik to call me, but I didn’t hear a word from him. They were both still intent on ignoring my past. I decided not to bring up the topic again unless they mentioned it themselves. It was now their turn to take a step forward. Except, they didn’t. I wasmy family’s dirty laundry, and to their horror, I had hung myself out to dry in public.
    After the article appeared, I felt awkward at Swiss Chalet. My co-workers and customers wanted to know more. I told them I was writing a book. “When will it be published?” they asked. I replied that I had no idea; it wasn’t ready yet. Where did I find the time to write a book while working at a restaurant and raising a family? they wanted to know. “You do what you have to do,” I said. It was astounding that my customers were more interested in my story than my own family was.
    Helen came to the restaurant without Mark one day. My heart sank. I ran to the hostess stand.
    “Where’s Mark?” I asked.
    “I had to send him to a home,” she said. “I couldn’t manage anymore.”
    She looked lonely and out of place. As fragile as a china figurine.
    “You have to care for yourself now, Helen. You did all you could for Mark.”
    “I saw a story about you in the paper. Boy, was I ever surprised! You never talked about yourself.”
    “Some things are hard to say.”
    “I know, but I’m glad you did when there was still time. Life takes opportunities away in a blink.”

Rachel’s Letter
    T he first publishing house I submitted my manuscript to rejected it. I was devastated. The editor told me I had too many characters in the book; as a result, the reader didn’t have a chance to feel for them. He had a point. I had to make it possible for the reader to feel for the prisoners, and in order to feel for them, the reader needed to get to know them. Too many characters made that impossible.
    The only solution that came to my mind was to merge my cellmates’ lives. I would recount events as I remembered them, but instead of connecting them to fifteen individuals, I would connect them to four or five. My own story would be told exactly as I recalled it.
    The editor’s concern wasn’t my only issue. I had to protect the privacy of my cellmates. I was not in touch with them to ask for permission to tell about their experiences, so I had to find a way to protect their privacy without compromising the integrity of the story. Merging my friends’ lives would solve that problem, as well.
    Being rejected was painful, but I remembered what Lee Gowan had told our class about rejections. Every writer, he said, even the most successful, has been rejected, in some cases not only once or twice but tens of times. I couldn’t give up.
    I allowed myself to feel devastated for only a day or two—after all, being upset was normal. But I knew I had to move on, rewrite, and try again. Not every publisher is