Exiles in America(161)

apologetic. He broods only about his work now, hiding in his art. He is paint-

ing a huge mural in the lobby of the Ministry of Justice, an elegant abstraction

that will be a nice change from the endless billboards of martyr boys and

tulips. He doesn’t know if anyone will see it, however. If the mullahs don’t

paint it out, he says, the bombs of the next war could destroy the whole build-

ing. Hassan was wrong. The reformers did not come to power, in part because

you invaded Iraq. The old mullahs remain the big dogs.

I received your many messages, Zack, but did not write sooner because I

did not want to think about why I came here. I still do not know. But I am

here. And no matter where you go, there you are. Am I happy? No. Am I

more miserable than I was in Paris or Virginia? No again, strange to say. I am

a woman without a country. I will be a foreigner wherever I go. Why not here?

They say that one writes prose at home and poetry in exile, and I am a poet,

so maybe I will always be in exile.

But I do try to imagine another life. I could live without Abbas. He is so

needy, unable to live alone, but I am stronger. I know how to be alone. Be-

E x i l e s i n A m e r i c a

3 6 9

cause being married to him is like being alone. Who am I kidding? I should

delete those words. I have my children, who are like two extra husbands. I am

not as alone as I pretend. I love Abbas more than he loves me, but I am used

to that. It is the air I breathe, like the thin air of the mountains breathed by the

goats who live in the clouds. And here is money, while in the U.S. I would be

poor.

I am in the land of covered women, and it is not as bad as I feared. I can

be myself indoors, reading illegal books and watching illegal DVDs. I despise

the chador but have grown fond of silk scarfs, particularly on windy days. I

learned early I cannot walk alone without strange men following me and

going tsk tsk tsk. Luckily I have a son and daughter and two sisters-in-law and

even a new friend to accompany me. I am surrounded by people, more than

in Virginia. And yes, I often feel lonely, but I tell myself I should cherish my

loneliness, since it is entirely mine, a free space inside me.

Do you remember Hassan’s idiotic quote from Sartre, how the French

were never so free as they were under the Nazi occupation? It is a stupid idea,

a vile idea. As if a chained dog is freer than a stray, and prison the purest free-

dom of all. Yet I understand the temptation. When we suffer our little private

stories, we long to lose ourselves in a big public story. A public story is more

important, more meaningful. But now I am trapped in a public story (war and

religion), and I miss my private little narratives. Yet they are here, if I look for

them. There will always be little stories. Many little stories in every life at any

given time.

And how are you? What kind of story do you and Daniel live in now? Life

must be wonderfully peaceful without us around. But you appear to miss me

some, since you continue to write despite my silence. I did not think I missed

you, Zack, until I started working on this letter. I like talking to you in my

head as well as face-to-face. We were part of each other’s stories, briefly, dur-

ing our time in America: You and me. Abbas and Daniel. You were our

friends in the Great Satan. But now we live in God. Which is a curious place

to be.

You must come and visit us. One day. When you are ready. Before the next

war. Please?