CanYouHearMyHands?IranianVoicesofLondonandBeyond BetsabehKamali

BetsabehKamali

IhadnearlypassedtheCentre.Twice.Thegentlemanonthephonesaidit’sonlyafive-minute walktotheCentrefromHollowayStation.Everythingisafive-minutewalkfortheseLondoners.This five-minutejourneytookagoodtwentyminutes.IwasbeginningtoworryImayhavepassedit,soI crossedthestreet.Perhapsabird’seyeviewcouldhelpmefindit.Noluck.Myfrustrationwasmounting andIwasabouttogiveup.“Ok,Bets,”Ithoughtonelasttime,“crossthestreetandstartoveragain,but thistimelookforFarsiwriting.” Iwassurprisedtohaveevenfoundit.TheIranianCommunityCentrewasonthethirdfloorofa dingy,rottingoldbuildingsqueezedbetweenadiscountluggagestoreandasmall,reasonablypriced, family-ownedcoffeeshop.ItwastheNealeHarperBuilding,#266-268,exceptthefirst‘2’ wasmissing. Nexttotheluggagestoretherewasapizzashop.Youcouldbuyaslicefor£1.00.Whatasteal.Acrossthe streetwereaSainsbury’sLocalandahiddenathleticsstore. AndpastthebridgewastheLondon

MetropolitanUniversity.Ididn’tfeellikeIwasinLondon,though. ThisearlyinthemorningandIsaw drunksonbenchesandyoungmentryingtopickup‘hoochiemamas’ atbusstops.Oneelderlywoman withawalkersimplyliftedupherdressandurinatedrightonthesidewalk.Withthewindblowingitwas notaprettysight.Shedidn’tevenbothertocrouch.ThelawonHollowayRoadwasn’tthesameasinthe restofEngland. IpressedtheICCbuttonandthedoormadeahorridbuzzingsoundthatIbetevenpeopleat Sainsbury’scouldhear.Ipulledopenthemetaldoorandenteredalong,narrowanddirtyhallway.It smelledofurineandsweatandoldcookingoil.Itsmelledofhell.Icouldn’ttellwhetherIwasinsideor outside.Itwas10:00amandmyshakinghandhadahardtimepushingthe‘up’ button.Iwasfreezingand myhandsfeltclammy.“OhmyGod,I’mgonnascrewthisup.”Ijustwantedtoturnaroundandgoback

totheTube,backtomyhorrificaccommodation,pack,andgetontheearliestflightbackhome.Iwasn’t cutoutforuniversitylife.Icouldn’tkeepupinthecold.Whatiftheywouldn’thelpmebecauseIwasn’t oneofthemanymore?MaybeIwasatraitortothemnow.Maybemynamewastoodisturbingforthem. MaybegrowingupinTehranwasnotacceptable.MaybenotbeingagreatFarsispeakerwasembarrassing tomyancestors.MaybenotknowingIranianhistorywassomethingtobeashamedof. Toolate.Theelevatordoorsopenedandasoftlady’svoicesaid: “Groundfloor.”Thedoorsclosed sharplyandopenedjustassharplyagain. OhmyGod,wehadn’tmoved.Theelevatorwasbroken.The

doorslammedagainandthevoicesaid: “Thirdfloor.”Againtheelevatorferociouslyopeneditsdoors onlytoslamthemshut. “That’sit,”Ithought,“I’mgonnadieinthisvileelevator.” ButbeforeIcouldpanic,I rememberedascenefromamovie: whentheelevatorgotstuck,theyjumpedupanddown.Ijumped.I didn’thavemuchofachoice.ItmovedandImadeittothethirdfloor,withthedoorsoftheICCrightin

frontofme.Iwalkedin.Asmallgentlemanwithglassesbiggerthanhisheadwelcomedme.Helooked dishevelledbutverysmartandhumble. “CanIhelpyou?” “Hello.IamtheIraniangirlwhocalledyouonFriday…” “Oh,yes.Irememberyou.ComeintomyofficeandI’llseeifIcanhelpyou.Idon’tthinkso,butI willtry.DoyouspeakanyFarsi?” WithegoandgustoIsaid: “Ohyes!” “Weareheretohelprefugeesinanywaywecan,”hetoldmeinFarsi.“Wehelpthemapplyfor visas,getimmigrationlawyersandfindemployment.Wehelppaytheirelectricity,phone,andwhatever otherbillstheymayhave.Weevenhelpthemwithlawviolations.”

Iwassurprisedaboutthelawviolations.BeforeIcouldaskhimwhy,hetoldmethatthemajority, some90%oftherefugees,couldn’tspeakEnglish.Iwouldbefacedwithahugechallenge. Iwasimpressed.ButIdidn’tknowhowtoaskhimtheall-importantquestion: doyouhaveany storiesthatyouwanttosharewithme?Iwasrelievedwhenhisphonerangandhehadtoexcusehimself toanswerit.“Comeon,Bets,think.Think.Think.You’vegottotellhimwhatyoureallywant.Thisisn’t hard.RememberwhenyouinterviewedJesseJacksonandBillClinton?Thisisawalkintheparkforyou. Relyonyouroldjournalisticinstincts.ForGod’ssake,Bets,youworkedasaninternattheWUSAin WashingtonDC.Shit,youwerechosenoutofthousandsofapplicants.You’vegonetomurderscenesand courthearings.You’veinterviewedprosecutorsandjudges.You’veseenlocalnewscelebritiesinterview congressmenandsenators.Thisisnothing.Youcandothis.Howshamefulthatyoucan’taskthismana

simplequestion.” MrShirinpourwasagoodman.HereallyseemedtocareabouttheIranianswhocametothe Centre.Heseemedtobeamanwithagreatdealofpassionforhelpingothers.Icouldseeitinhiseyes throughhisover-sizedglassesthatkeptslidingdowntothetipofhisnose.Hetoldmehewasmarried withtwokids: athirteen-year-oldboyandababy.Hiswifestayedhomeandtookcareofthebabyandhe workedattheCentreasacoordinator-director.HealsodevotedeverySaturdaytotheBoundsGreenFarsi School.Hechuckledashetoldmehehadn’thadaweekendtohimselfinovertenyears. Hesatdowninhischairforjustasecondbeforehegotupandbegantolookoverhisfiles.His officelookedlikeascenefromthemovie‘AllthePresident’sMen’: paperseverywhereandfilesof

everythingyoucouldimagine.Attimes,itwashardtofindhimamongthemountainsoffilesonhisdesk. WhenIaskedhimaboutallthepapers,hejustsmiled: ”WhatcanIsay,Ican’tsaynotoanyone.” HetoldmethattheCentrewastheoldestinthecity,establishedin1983.TheboroughofBarnet heldthelargestIraniancommunity.Butgoodluckfindingthem;mostofthemblendedinwithEnglish society.HefurthereducatedmeonthemassmigrationoutofIran,whichbeganabout30yearsago.ThisI

knewtobetrue,becausemyfamilywasoneoftheearlyoneswhotookpartinit.WemovedtoSouth Jersey,aboutforty-fiveminutesfromManhattan. “Listen,it’salmost11:00amandyou’vecomeontheperfectday. Thereisamanwhosestory couldbeofinteresttoyou.” Whatperfectday?Iwasexcited,anxiousandworriedatthesametime.Isteppedoutintothe waitingareatogiveMrShirinpourtimetodohisworkandwaitforthismysteriousmantoarrive.Isaw thatafewmorepeoplehadarrived.Acoupleofelderlymenwithwhatlookedliketheirgrandsons.They werecomplainingtoeachotherthattheywerewaitingtoolong.Icaughtoneoftheirnames: Mohsain. Theysmiledatmeandstooduptosayhello.TheythoughtIwasanothervisitorandwerejusttryingtobe nice.TheyaskedmeifIwasbeforethem.IsaidIwasn’ttheretoseeanyone.Theywerehappytobenext.

Theybegantocomplaintomeabouttheweatherandthefrigidwind.TheybothhatedEnglandbutknew thisiswhattheywereforcedtocallhome.Theycomplainedaboutthegovernmentandhowtherich alwaysatefromthepoor.Theylookedhelplessandangry.IwishedthemwellastheywentintoseeMr Shirinpour.Aladykeptpacingbackandforth,backandforth.Itwasdrivingmemadbutcalmingher down.Iwantedtoapproachherbutsheseemedtobeinsuchdeepthought. TheCentrewasindesperateneedofrepair.Itlookedlikeawarscene.Thewaitingroomhada wonderfulskylightthatwashardtomiss.Nevertheless,itbroughtaboutacold,alienfeeling.APersian carpetwasthecentrepieceoftheroom,butwithallthedirtandstainsonit,itlookedassadassomeofthe soulssittingaroundit.AlargetablecoveredwithbusinesscardsandIraniannewspapersstoodacrossthe room.Therewerealsoalotofbrochuresonmentalhealthclinicsanddoctors.Mostofthebusinesscards

werefromimmigrationlawyers. ThepamphletswereforEnglishclassesandcheapcomputercourses.The roomhadasmalllibraryofbooksinFarsi,allforborrowingfreeofcharge.Butitopenedwithakey.I’d onlyseenitopenedonce. ThereweretwootherpeopleworkingattheCentre.MrsSimin,likeMrShirinpour,wasapaid consultant,andtheotherwasamiddle-agedwomanwhovolunteeredhertimeeverydayfrom9:30am until5:30pm.She’dhelpwithtranslations,althoughherEnglishwaspoor;withcounseling,althoughshe wasmentallytroubled;withpayingbillsandanyminorrefugeeissues.MrShirinpournevercomplained abouther.Infact,hehadatremendousamountofrespectforher.Shewasverykindandalwaysreadyto help.Shedidn’tsmilemuch,though.Maybeshehadnoreasontosmile.Ilookedatherwithsuch

keennessthatIfoundmyselflostinherthoughts.Sheworeoverlybaggyjeansandanevenbaggier sweater. Ifoundoutlaterthatshehadnevertakenasickdayandwasalwaysontime. MrsSiminsawalmostalltherefugees.Shewasapetite,spunkyladyfromAbadan,lovedbyall; especiallythemen. ShelaughedconstantlyandmovedaboutwithsuchspeedandcautiousnessthatI thoughtthemenwouldsometimesjustcomeintositandwatchhermove.Therefugeesentered,signed

theirnamesonaclipboard,tookaseatandwaitedtobecalled.Youcouldsometimesseethemgiveup theirturniftheywereinaheateddiscussionoverlifeandlibertywithothervisitors.Attimes,the conversationsturnedintosuchheateddebatesof‘hesaid,shesaid’ thateventhedirectorwouldcomeout toseewhatallthecommotionwasabout.Andsoonhe’dfindhimselfcaughtinthedebatesaswell. I,forthemostpart,satback,listenedandfeltlikeIwasinmyfather’slivingroomhavingthe samedebatesaboutpolitics,religionandcondemnation.Withinminutes,theheavydooroftheCentre openedandastatelyoldgentlemanwalkedinwithapearlysmileandamountainofnewspapersand magazinesunderhisarm,clutchingitwithallhisstrength,asifhehadasecretandwasexcitedtoshareit withus,theveryspecialfew.Iknewinstantlythatthiswasmymysteryman.Hestooderect,likeatwometermonument.Heputhislargepileofpapersontheinformationtableandbegantolecturethepoor

gentlemenwaitingtoseeMrShirinpouraboutthepoemhewroteinthenewspaperandthedisgusting IslamicRepublicofIran.HewasIran’sversionofMartinLutherKing,Jr. Hehadarobustvoice.A dictator-likepassionflamedthroughhiseyesandpouredoutfromeveryporeinhisbody.MrShirinpour cameout,tookthegentlemanintoaquietroomandtoldhimwhatIwasdoing.Themanwasfeverishly excitedtotalktome. “MrIssa,thisisMadamBetty.Sheisinterestedinyourstory.” “Doorood.Doorood.MadamBetty,doyouunderstandwhatIjustsaid?” “I’mafraidnot.” “Isaidwelcome.Welcome.”Hekissedmyhand. Iwasinfortherideofmylife.Anelderlyman whowasthesameageasmyfathermademeblush.Whydidn’thejustsayourtraditional“Salam?”Why

didhesayawordI’dneverheardofinmylife?IwasabouttogetmyselfentangledinaworldIknew verylittleabout.Iwasn’tsureIwasprepared. Theroomwascoldandsmelledmusty.Theonelargewindowhadasoftpinkcurtainpatterned withdust.Theledgeofthewindowhadneverbeencleanedandmouldwasclingingtoitlikeblackivy. Thereweremanydeadcreatures,bigandsmall.Itlookedasiftheyhadbeenthereformonths.Iwantedto givetheCentreabighugandtellitthatIwoulddowhateverIcouldtosaveitandbringitbacktolife.It becamepartofmymission. MrIssamadehimselfacupofcoffee.Heplaceditonthewobblytableandthesteamdriftedinto mynose.Iwasindesperateneedtogetwarm.Henoticedmestaringathissteamingcup.

“Wouldyoulikeacup?It’sgoingtobealongday.” “Ohno.Idon’twanttoinconvenienceyou.” “Nowayyoucould.I’llberightback. It’stoocold.” Ihadamomenttobreatheandgetmytaperecorderready.Thenheplacedasteamingcupof coffeeinfrontofme,satdown,andtookinthesameoxygenIwassodesperatelytryingtobreathe.He

removedhisblackcoatandplaceditgentlyoverhisbluericketychair.Hedidthatwithsuchprecision, thatIsensedhewasacompassionateman.Hishandsbegantowave.Theywereamysterytome: tautand stiff,fullofwrinklesandstories.Thewrinklesmadehisskinsotense. Hissea-blueeyeswerebulging withexcitementandterror.Tearsrolleddownhisface.Itriedtofollowthemallthewaydown,butthey cametorestinthecracksofhisface.Itookadeepbreath,pressedtherecorderbuttonandsatback.He tookadeeperbreathandsuckedupalltheoxygenintheroom.Igavehimtimetoremember.Helooked everywherebutatme.Hekeptrubbinghishandsanditsoundedlikeroughsandpaperagainstagedskin.I triednottostareatthemanyholesinhisargylesweater,butwitheverywaveofhisarm,thehugeholes underhisleftarmpitrevealedascarypartofhislife,hismemoryandhisdespair.Thescarfaroundhis neckleftmedumbfounded.Itwasn’tarealscarf.He’dcutoutthesleevesandneckofanoldsweaterto

makeit.Moneywastight.Moneywouldalwaysbetightforhim.Herepeatedlysaid: “Everythingcomes backtomoney,MadamBetty.” “Maaziraat mekhum.” Ifelttheneedtoapologiseforthedisturbingworldwelivein.Ifeltresponsibleforthefeelingsof thisagingtestimonialofhistory.Iwasreadytotakeontheworld’smistakesandcarrythemonmy shoulders. “It’snotyourfault.”Hesmiled. “It’sjustwhatthesadworldweliveinislikenow.”