12. Zeke—Age 17

Chapter 12

Zeke—Age 17

Azadeh’s Modest Childhood Home

“God should never be forced, Ze-ek,” Mrs. Baran said as she put ointment on my bruises and cuts. Her voice broke as she attempted to push back tears.

I should’ve bitten my tongue, but I was so full of emotional and physical pain that I wasn’t willing to keep my thoughts in check. “The only feelings the mention of God conjures in me are dread, violence, and manipulation.”

Mrs. Baran nodded.

It couldn’t be easy to see the same marks on my body that scared her child. I didn’t want to come here. All I wanted was Azadeh. After my father passed out, I climbed out my window and wobbled my way to her house. Usually, I would climb up to Azadeh’s window to avoid her mother, but my dad had mangled my leg a bit, so that wasn’t a possibility. Instead, I threw rocks until Azadeh’s head poked out. I guessed I should’ve checked out how messed up my face was before I headed over because she took one look at me and screamed, waking up everybody.

Now, she offered a dry laugh at my thoughts about God. “That I can understand. When you force someone to eat, they’re bound to get sick and throw up. With indoctrination, religious people sometimes have a gluttony problem.”

Even through the pain, a smile formed on my lips when I heard Azadeh’s voice. “So basically, my dad forced me into being bulimic?” Azadeh scanned my body as if searching for something that might not have been visible. “What are you hoping to find?”

She quickly averted her eyes like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar after her mother told her she couldn’t have any more sweets. In those moments, I convinced myself Azadeh saw me as more than her best friend. Maybe she had deeper feelings for me.

I waited patiently for her answer. Even though Azadeh spoke English fluently now, sometimes she paused to search for the right word, so conversations needed my patience. But it didn’t seem like a language barrier impeding her speech now. It was something more painful, something she’d rather forget.

I experienced a resounding need to push Azadeh for an answer. I despised seeing her sad. All I wanted was her smiles, and by coming to her to seek comfort, I’d opened a wound she yearned to keep sealed. Fuck. I’d kick my ass if my body wasn’t pretty much useless.

“I’m sorry, Az. We don’t need to talk about it.”

Azadeh tilted her head and smiled. I loved how she had all these different smiles, and I knew every single one of them. This smile was one of reassurance. She had a sad smile, a happy one, a nervous one, a friendly one, a sweet one.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. I was just thinking about the irony.”

“Irony?” I asked.

Azadeh was so cryptic. She used language in such a peculiar way. It was as if the conversation was in her mind, and she didn’t see the need to articulate it with whoever was in her presence. She once joked about how Persian would sound like Yoda talking if translated word for word to English. I wondered if her mind was complex and intricate like that of the Master Jedi.

“I always thought the West would be this paradise where everyone was free to think, act, and say whatever they wanted. And to an extent, I suppose that’s true. You don’t have government officials arresting you because you said something about Jesus. No one will torture you if you don’t follow the dress code. But I’ve come to realize that even here, some people are so desperate to get you to paradise that they force you to live in hell.”

“Do you ever wonder if the world would be a better place if Abraham’s mother had swallowed?” I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth. Not the statement itself or that I might have insulted someone who so many believed was a prophet, but because they were so crass.

Everything about Azadeh was gentle. She wasn’t a pushover or naïve, but she was gentle toward those she held close to her heart. She rarely swore, and she had a way of making you feel welcome. She would share her last morsel of food with a stranger because it was rude not to. I’d even seen her give away her sweater to a girl because she said it was lovely.

Later, Azadeh told me she loved that sweater, and when I asked her why she gave it away, she said it was custom. Apparently, Iranians had this thing called Tarof, but we Westerners had no clue that we weren’t supposed to take what they were offering.

Tarof was the act of offering. I discovered through Nasrin that Tarof was this constant back-and-forth offering for someone to take and keep anything they complimented. I liked the custom. It made someone feel worthy. The only problem was that some people would take advantage of it.

“Sorry. Az. I should’ve watched my mouth.”

Azadeh laughed. “Good old Abraham. I’m not sure if he was the problem or the four billion people who think God ordained a man with severe paranoid delusions and homicidal tendencies. Religion isn’t evil, not by itself. If you take lessons from the texts, it could be a form of enrichment. It can help be a moral compass of sorts, but as soon as religion becomes an obsession, it morphs into poison, and that’s when it becomes lethal to anyone who adheres to it. This is why so many people rage against it.”

“Do you believe?” I asked.

“God? I’d like to think he or she is up there watching over us. I’d like to think whatever being God is, he’s a good one, not one of vengeance or intolerance in organized religion. But to answer your question truthfully, wanting to believe and believing are two vastly different things. No. I don’t believe in God. Not anymore. I’ve seen what religion does to people. I don’t want to live in the world of us and them. To place humans in neat little boxes where they’re worthy or unworthy. Life doesn’t work like that. And to be fair, the concept of free will and love thy neighbors that so many religions preach is stripped away until all empathy and humanity is tarnished.”

I glanced at a framed black-and-white photo of a man and a woman with two young children by their side, a boy and a girl, no more than ten. They were standing under a monument in Tehran, The Azadi Tower. The woman was laughing, her hair blowing in the wind as the man looked on at her adoringly. “Who’s that in the photo?”

“That’s my grandparents with my mom and her twin brother. That was right before the revolution. They renamed it Azadi Tower. Can you believe that? The great freedom tower in Tehran symbolizes the opposite of freedom. Down with the monarchy only to replace it with a tyrannical theocracy. They killed thirty thousand people right after the revolution. Executed them in one go. Thirty-thousand people who didn’t want a monarchy but didn’t want to live under oppressive religious rule either. The killing didn’t stop there. Anyone who dared to speak out against the regime was silenced with imprisonment, extortion, blackmail, or death. The propaganda machine had people convinced Iranians wanted the current government, but they didn’t. The revolution was stolen, swiped right from under those kids who had a dream of democracy.” Azadeh shook her head as sadness welled up in her eyes. “What did all those young people fight for in the first place? The king didn’t fall for freedom; he fell for a new form of oppression, far worse and far more lethal. Now, the country is mostly populated by people who never had a say but must now endure the foolish choices of their parents and grandparents with no hope of ending their suffering.”

Mrs. Baran interrupted our deep conversation by handing me a hot cup of tea in a small clear mug with a lollipop stick standing at attention on the side.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“This fixes everything,” Mrs. Baran said with a warm smile. I found it a little jarring how she could be the sweetest mother on earth but also yell at her son like a damn drill sergeant. “Chai nabat.”

“Translated to sweet tea, it’s black tea with saffron-infused rock sugar,” Azadeh said. Iranian mothers believe it will cure whatever ails you.”

I took a sip and let the sweetness coat my throat. The liquid wasn’t a medicine that could fix my abusive father or mend the aches he’d caused to my flesh. But the remedy given to me by the mother of the person I cared for more than anyone else in the world did wonders for my soul.

“You should rest, Ze-ek,” Mrs. Baran said. “Sleep in Azadeh’s room. She can bunk with Mona tonight.” She nudged Azadeh with her arm. “Take the boy upstairs.”

I grabbed my tea, and Azadeh and I walked down the narrow hallway. The walls were pretty barren compared to my house. A few family photos taken in Iran were strung up on them, one with Azadeh on the shoulders of a man with a soft smile and warm eyes like hers. Her father. A small Persian rug hung on the wall. That was another thing I found fascinating: Persians didn’t walk on their rugs; they displayed them like art. Right by Azadeh’s door was another piece of art with a page torn from a book detailing a photo of Persepolis and a quote:

All men have their frailties, and whoever looks for a friend without imperfections will never find what he seeks.

She opened the door, and I felt like Dorothy seeing Oz for the first time. The bed was a humble single, with a thick, big, blue blanket thrown over it. Unlike other girls’ rooms, hers didn’t have a heap of pillows. There was only one. Practical. The room was empty other than the shelves that housed books. Out of all the books, which were in English, one had Perso-Arabic script outfacing with intricate art on the cover.

I pointed toward the mammoth book. “What’s that one about?”

“The Shahnameh,” she said, her face radiating pride. “The book of kings. You can’t call yourself Persian and not own a copy.”

“Why is it so important?”

“That book saved the Persian language. It’s become a symbol of the perseverance of the Persian people and our language.”

“Have you read it all? Looks thick.”

“Some. It’s a hard book to read. Kind of written like The Fairy Queen by Edmund Spencer. My goal is to read and understand the entirety at least once before I die.”

“What’s The Fairy Queen?” I asked.

She laughed. “I love that about you.”

My brain froze. Love? Azadeh loved something about me. Wait, what did she love? “What? What do you love about me?”

“So many guys pretend they know everything, even when they don’t. They act like they do or fake it. You don’t do that. Being around you is easy because you’re so genuine.”

I shrugged. “Fadat besham, Azizam.”

Azadeh’s face flushed red. Bright red. I frowned. I was pretty sure I’d said the words right. Oh. My. God. Did I just ask her to suck my dick? Fuck.

“Um, my Persian sucks. Did I pronounce something wrong? I could’ve. Whatever you think I said, I didn’t. I’ve been learning, and it’s way harder than English. Did you know there’s no gender? That part is kind of cool. Of course, you know that. Why wouldn’t you know that?”

Azadeh grabbed my shoulders as she belly laughed. I think she snorted. Oh, my God, she thought I was a tool.

“Relax, Zeke. You didn’t say anything bad. It was super sweet, even if you didn’t intend to say the words. You told me you’d sacrifice your life for me.”

I’d never been the praying type, but at that moment, I wanted to get down on my knees and thank baby Jesus. Profusely. “I would. I’d sacrifice my life for you, Az. No questions asked.

Azadeh framed my face, holding me still, consuming me with the need to be in her presence. At that moment, I knew I could deal with all the shitty things life threw at me as long as I had her.

Not knowing what came over me, I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her to me. We stood there for a moment, staring at each other. It was like a movie montage with music when the two characters are twirled into a sky full of stars. Being around Azadeh made me believe I was invincible. Without hesitation, I lowered my head and brushed my lips with hers.

The kiss was slow at first, tiny sparks igniting, but then my hands were in her hair, and our tongues were dancing. Fuck. I felt like I’d won the lottery. If I died and her lips were the last thing I tasted, I’d consider it a life well lived.

When we pulled back, I was so mesmerized I couldn’t stop staring at her.

Her fingers moved to her lips. “That was my first kiss.”

“I know you need more than I’ll ever be able to give you. But I’m glad you gave me something as memorable as your first kiss.” I swear the pain my father had inflicted vanished as Azadeh smiled at me. “You’re so beautiful. Sometimes, it hurts to look at you.”

Azadeh’s smile grew. “That’s an interesting compliment. And you’re more than enough for anyone. You’re Ezekiel Summers, the boy who showed me that kindness can be found in the most unlikely places.”

“You blind me, Az. In your presence, I’m both David and Goliath. I can’t explain it. I’ve never met anyone like you, and I’m positive I never will again. You bewitch me in so many ways.”

“We better get you to bed before my mother checks on us.” Azadeh brushed past me and went to the bed, turning it down.

On her nightstand lay a battered copy of The Handmaid’s Tale. The cover was dented, pages dog-eared, and highlighter applied to various paragraphs. The book was the only one in her collection that looked banged up. Most of the others on her shelf didn’t even have a cracked spine.

“What’s your obsession with this book?”

Azadeh pulled the book from my grasp and glided her fingers over the cover. “I find it fascinating that a woman who lived on the other side of the planet captured the horrors that haunt so many women in Iran so clearly.”

“But your mom is a fierce, independent woman. She had an education, and judging by how she talks about your father, she seemed to run that show. In The Handmaid’s Tale, the women are prisoners in a patriarchal nightmare. Is Iran that bad?”

Azadeh gazed at the book, her mind going to some place darker. “Like you said earlier, life is based on luck. My mother was lucky to be born to a man who respected her and lucky enough to fall in love with my father, a man who adored her. But for many women in Iran, it’s like living in hell on earth, where they’re nothing but property and cattle to be bartered. So your answer about Iran will depend on who you ask.”