An Interview With My Iranian Mother

I’ve tackled some serious, if not downright depressing topics in recent weeks, including two columns on the state of crime in Los Angeles and the horrifying hostage incident in Colleyville, TX. Now, it’s time to focus on a topic that always lightens the mood: my mother. 

Last week, my mother celebrated her birthday, motivating me to interview her and to dedicate this column to the woman with whom I continue to share ties that bind, and yes, sometimes gag.

My mother, Flora, is an elitist from Tehran who insists that she’s not an elitist. It should be noted that three minutes into our phone interview, a fight erupted when I asked her to briefly describe her childhood and she proceeded to specify exactly what foods were rationed in Iran during World War II. 

My mother, Flora, is an elitist from Tehran who insists that she’s not an elitist. It should be noted that three minutes into our phone interview, a fight erupted when I asked her to briefly describe her childhood and she proceeded to specify exactly what foods were rationed in Iran during World War II (she wasn’t even born yet). I was stressed because I only had 30 minutes to speak. But for me, my mother had all the time in the world. 

The following is a condensed version of that interview, which was conducted in various annoyed tones of Persian. 

Tabby Refael: What was one of the hardest aspects of your childhood?

Mother Flora: My mother really exploited me because I was the only daughter in a family of six sons. On Fridays, I would wash dishes, sauté eggplants, onions and tomatoes (separately), sweep the floors, clean the bathrooms and do everything in preparation for Shabbat. I spent a lot of time alone in a dark basement, cleaning dozens and dozens of dishes.

TR: That’s terrible. How old were you?

MR: About four, I’d say. 

TR: Four? Now I feel bad for complaining that you used to force me to descale a giant, dead trout when I was eight. 

MR: Don’t worry, I started you on dishes when you were six. 

TR: What did you want to be when you grew up?

MR: I really liked the police — their hats and clothes.

TR: You would have made an excellent police officer. No one possesses your unique interrogation skills. 

MR: What are you suggesting?

TR: Nothing. Absolutely nothing. What was it like to live under a king and a queen (the Shah and Empress Farah) before the 1979 revolution?

MR: [swoons]: I loved the Shah. He liked Jews. And I loved Farah. She helped a lot of communities and visited many rural villages. She would actually bake bread with villagers.

TR: Did you ever imagine that Iran would change into a fanatic Muslim theocracy?

MR: I never thought Iran would change, but your father knew. He always said that the Shah was creating too many enemies and that Iran would fall to the Islamists. 

TR: What was it like to live through the Iranian Revolution, one of the most critical upheavals of the twentieth century?

MR: I was pregnant with your older sister, and there were constant demonstrations in the streets. They were terrifying, and each time I heard them, I experienced bad contractions. Those demonstrations really damaged me. Fanatic women even poured into the streets and yelled at other women to cover their hair. After the revolution, everything changed. The Islamists ruined our lives and our country. 

TR: Do you remember the first time you wore the mandatory headscarf (hijab)?

MR: My father had had cataract surgery, and I visited him wearing the headscarf. He couldn’t believe his eyes, and not because of the cataracts. I used to wear miniskirts during the time of the Shah. But as bad as I felt for myself, I felt worse for you and your sister. You were actually forced to wear the maghnaeh, a thick, black hood [in the 1980s]. You both arrived home from school dripping with sweat, faces red and downtrodden. Did you know that there was a teacher at your school who secretly taught you Hebrew? 

TR: Incredibly, I had forgotten. Do you believe that you lived a harder life in Iran than your mother?

MR: Yes, only after the revolution. But do you want to know something truly sad? You and your sister lived a harder life in Iran than even I did. 

TR: Where do you call “home”?

MR: If the mullahs leave, home is Iran. But I’m safer here. Now, my home is in America. But I’m so scared of things like crime in this country. And I’m scared of terrorists here. I’m scared of entering a synagogue. From the day we came to America until today, I’ve been scared. That reminds me: When you go grocery shopping, always use the check-out line that’s farthest from the door, in case of armed gunmen.

TR: Do you remember your first visit to Israel?

MR: Of course. I was 21 and working for Iran Air, which gave me free tickets. I visited all of the tombs of the patriarchs and matriarchs. I became obsessed with the song, “Yerushalayim Shel Zahav” (“Jerusalem of Gold”). But I really melted for those Israeli soldiers. I would follow one around and shout, “Ghorboonet beram!” (“May I be sacrificed for you”). Oh, those muscles. Have you seen their muscles?

TR: I seem to have a vague recollection, but never mind about my hobbies. 

MR: What hobbies?

TR: Please just let me ask you another question.

MR: You want to know what is my biggest problem with America? In Iran, all of the children respected their parents, because in school, it was constantly emphasized to respect parents and elders. Here, in America, I don’t think I get enough respect. That’s just the truth.

TR: You remind me of Rodney Dangerfield, if he was a disgruntled Iranian mother.

MR: Who? Anyway, do you want to know about my favorite Iranian cities? My favorite was Tehran because the Shah lived there, as did many Jews. But I really loved the northern cities, especially Ramsar.  

TR: Isn’t that city radioactive? 

MR: So is Los Angeles. 

TR: Fair enough. Tell me about your identity. Do you consider yourself Iranian, first and foremost?

“I’m Jewish first, then Iranian, then American. But lately, my biggest identity has been that of an old woman.” – Tabby’s mother

MR: I’m Jewish first, then Iranian, then American. But lately, my biggest identity has been that of an old woman.

TR: You’re still young and vibrant. Would you ever live in Iran again, if the regime collapsed?

MR: Your father is too settled here. He never thinks of going back. But I wish to return to Iran, if only to visit. I know we’ve created our lives here in America. But if I visit Iran again, once I get off of the plane, I’m going to kiss Iranian soil. And visit all of those gorgeous northern towns in Iran. Do you have any more questions for me? I have to turn off the rice. 

TR: Just one. Why do you always call dad a hillbilly?

MR: I never called him a hillbilly. 

TR: You called him one last week. He’s so well-read; he has a degree in polymer science. Is it because he wasn’t born in Tehran?

MR: I don’t remember ever calling him a hillbilly. The only hillbillies, it’s said, are some of the people who live in those beautiful, small northern towns in Iran. 

Happy Birthday, Mother.

Tabby Refael is a Los Angeles-based writer, speaker and civic action advocate. Follow her on Twitter @RefaelTabby