Escape From Iran

T. Mike Walker

Description

Escape From Iran is an action/adventure/romance/historical/political novel which takes place in Iran during the 1979-1980 revolution which deposed the Shah and eventually seized American hostages working at the U.S. Embassy. Escape From Iran traces the interconnected lives of three idealists-Ara Vartan, an American musician; Kereshmae Nasraddin, an educated, westernized Iranian widow, and Mostafa, a pivotal leader in the new revolutionary government- all of them caught up in the bloody battles and inter-personal struggles between political factions which deposed the Shah, rejected western control of Iran, then turned upon each other in their struggle for control. Ara Vartan, an American-born musician of Armenian-Assyrian decent, has traveled to Iran on a Guggenheim Award to study Iranian classical and folk music to obtain a Ph.D. from Berkeley, CA. A product of student revolts in the late 60's, Ara is quickly caught up in the fever of political protest, then forced to flee from Tehran with his teacher, hiding out in the mountains of Kuristan to continue his studies while other Americans were being evacuated. The book begins when the Kurdish communists seize power in the the Zagros mountains. Ara is forced to flee, this time back toward Tehran where he hopes to convince the U.S. Embassy to send him home. On the bus, he meets a beautiful young widow who is also on her way to Tehran-to die! Kereshmae intends to join an anti-mullah party (Motjadeen-Khalq) and fight for women's rights. Thrown together by circumstances, she and Ara are captured outside the Tehran bus terminal after curfew. Kereshmae is branded as a prostitute and condemned to death. Ara insists that he is a CIA spy and demands to speak with someone high enough in authority to listen to his story, but the Mullah who interrogates him also discovers that Ara has been using drugs and condemns Ara to death. However, Ara's old friend and mentor from Berkeley, Dr. Mostafa Bazaari, who helped plot and execute the anti-Shah revolution, learns that Ara is in the Palace and intercedes on his behalf. When Ara pleads that Kereshmae be released too, Mostafa resists, finally conceding only on the condition that the two get married! Thus begins one of the strangest romances of modern times! Through their struggles the unlikely lovers are hounded by war, stripped of all beliefs and forced to face their deepest fears before they can achieve their dreams. Escape from Iran is a fast moving exotic adventure through a country in flames! It is the story of a search for peace in the rage of war, where desperate men and women must choose between their lives and their ideals.

Sujets

• Middle Eastern
• Art

Informations

• Publié par: Outskirts Press
• Date de parution: 12 mai 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781478790181
• Langue: English

Extrait

Escape From Iran
The Re-enslavement of Women and the Death of Modern Music
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2017 T. Mike Walker
v3.0

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Outskirts Press, Inc.
http://www.outskirtspress.com

ISBN: 978-1-4787-9018-1

Cover Photo © 2017 thinkstockphotos.com. All rights reserved - used with permission.
Author Photo by Sandra Vines-Walker

Outskirts Press and the “OP” logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
My deepest thanks to all of the men and women who came forward to share their stories with me. I have woven them into this tapestry at their request to share with the world. At their request, they remain anonymous.




Therefore:

All characters in this novel are fictitious, whether living or dead.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1. Death Is a Camel...
2. Transfer
3. Kereshmae
4. Bonding
5. Qom
6. Destiny
7. Captured
8. A Spy
9. Interrogation
10. Reunion
11. Fusion
12. The Morning After
13. The Removal
14. Taxi
15. Shemran
16. Mission
17. Rebels
18. Jihad
19. Die Before You Die
20. Imam’s Answer
21. Transmutation
22. Rebirth
23. Recovery
24. Turnabout
25. Vibrations
26. The Hippie Must Die
27. Other People’s Adventures
28. Choose Life
29. Flight
30. Eternal Life
31. Shiraz
32. Healing
33. Khorso
34. Karim
35. Rostam
36. Hafiz
37. Unmasked
38. Persepolis
39. Truth
40. Parting
41. Dasht-i-lut
42. Home Suite
43. Coda
DEATH IS A CAMEL...
A fter a sleepless night of riding in a rattling second class bus from Sanandaj in the Zagros Mountains of Western Iran, Ara Vartan was relieved to see the thin crack of dawn running like a knife-edge along the nearly flat horizon to the east. In the distance, on either side of the road, several massive dirt mounds stuck up like ugly lumps amidst the rolling fields, as if dumped there by a giant child making sand castles using a huge bucket. Ara nudged his friend Khorso, who dozed beside him. “What are those strange structures off to the right?” Ara pointed toward the dark conical shapes.
Startled from sleep, Khorso looked confused, then peered out the window. “Dung-makers,” The young man dismissed the mounds with a yawn. “For hundreds of years farmers used to collect pigeon droppings in those mounds to fertilize the fields of Isfahan. Then Shah’s big business agriculture replaced them by using chemicals, and the chemicals killed the birds. When the farmers complained, Shah told them it was progress.” He shrugged and closed his eyes again. “Try to sleep before we reach Isfahan.”
Ara stretched his legs into the aisle, trying to shake the powerful combination of fatigue and fear which gripped him. Twenty-four hours earlier he had been awakened at dawn by machine guns firing in the village square. Kurdish rebels had seized control of Kul, a small mountain village where Ara had been hiding for nearly six months, since Ayatollah Khomeini’s Islamic revolution had turned the ancient Persian landscape into a bloodbath of terror.
Now Ara was running for his life, perhaps the last American still loose in the land.
Ara remembered the fear on the face of his music teacher, Ustad Freydoon Ferdowsi, the famous Kurdish setar player, as he rushed into Ara’s small sparsely furnished bedroom waving a pistol, shouting for he and Khorso, Ara’s roommate, to dress and leave immediately. Ara sat up sluggishly on the thin straw mat that had served as his bed for so many months. He groped for his clothes on the floor beside him. He was still riding the tail end of an opium dream. “What’s going on?”
“Insurgents have surrounded the village mosque! They call for a free Kurdistan and demand succession from the Central Government in Tehran. They have already taken many villages to the north, including the city of Mahabad, and now they are here! Hurry! I no longer have power to protect you. Soon the villagers will remember that two foreigners live in my house and they will blame you for their misfortunes. My son, Amir, has our horse and two mules ready to take you down the old trail to Sanandaj. You must not take the main road, as it is occupied by rebels.”
“But where can I go from there?” Ara pleaded for direction.
“God alone knows. All of the roads will be watched.” Ferdowsi shrugged, helping him stuff clothing, hand-scribed music books, cassette tapes, whatever he could carry, into Ara’s rough cloth bag and one large suitcase. “If you are lucky you may catch a bus to Isfahan, but where you should go from there I can not say. All of the borders are certainly closed. There is a chance the American Embassy in Tehran will help if you can reach them. I wish you had gone on the airlift with the rest of the Americans during the evacuation, Ara, but no, you were so stubborn! You thought you were different, but now you see that you are merely mortal like the rest of us. Now death is a camel that can walk into our courtyard at any moment. Quick, both of you!” He ducked back through their door.
Ara packed furiously, taking every scrap of paper covered with notes and musical scales he had copied out for his Doctorate thesis at Berkeley--if he ever got back alive to complete it! Ara pulled on his blowsy Kurdish trousers and rough white country shirt, over which he wore a colorfully woven Kurdish vest. He cinched his shirt tight around his waist with a colorful blue sash shot through with sparkling silver treads. After lacing his soft leather boots tight, he slipped on his dark wool jacket and dark cloth cap, disappearing into the landscape like the rest of the residents of these small mountain villages.
Glancing once more around the small stable that had been his home for over six months, Ara sighed regretfully to leave his simple life of studying and playing music. He was being thrown back into the real world before he was ready to return and he resented it greatly. How dare anyone interrupt his creative reverie with a war!
Grumbling to himself, Ara locked his suitcase and hoisted it with his right hand, surprised at its weight. He slung his Syrian oud around his neck, picked up his old second-hand santir by the frayed leather handle of its battered hard cloth case, and followed Khorso out to the cobblestone courtyard where two small, foul smelling donkeys stamped impatiently.
Amir arrived at a gallop, riding Ferdowsi’s best horse, a large chestnut stallion that dwarfed the donkeys. Servants brought food for the journey, flat bread and sour cheese wrapped in damp cloth, as well as two musical instruments which Ferdowsi presented solemnly to Ara and Khorso, his last two music students.
To Khorso he handed an hourglass shaped leather case with a long slender neck.
“You are the seed of our tradition, Khorso, the one in a million every teacher yearns to have as a pupil. I give you my own instrument now, because you are the one who will carry on our traditions. The music I have taught you belongs to our people. When you play, the music becomes the fire and life of their blood. For six years I have given you all that I know and you have absorbed every drop. Now the music is yours to pass on. We are of different faiths, but in our hearts and through our music we are united.”
Next he turned to Ara. The old man’s freckled hands trembled as he pressed a trapezoidal wooden case into the young American’s hands. Without opening it, Ara knew that it contained a finely crafted Persian santir , great grandfather of the hammer dulcimer.
“To you I give my second best santir, Ara, as a gift to my fellow countrymen who are exiled in America. When you play it for them there they will hear their country sing again through you. I do not know if you studied so hard out of love for our music or love for our opium, but to my amazement you have learned quickly. I pray that you will always play santir with a pure spirit, never adulterate our music by mixing jazz, as I have heard you do with your oud . On this santir you will play only Persian music. You must swear!”
“I swear,” Ara agreed. “Even though I am unworthy of your gift. May I leave my own poor instrument with you for your next student? I can’t possibly carry them both.”
“Of course.” He took Ara’s case and placed it on the dirt.
“How do you propose I get back to my country with your beautiful instrument intact?” Ara looked deeply into Ferdowsi’s eyes, searching for the Sheik’s wisdom.
“I can not say, but it’s your instrument now. Treat it as you would your own body and soul. Perhaps now you are having second thoughts about all those demonstrations you were in before I brought you to these mountains. Do you see now what your protests in Tehran have accomplished? Lawlessness breeds lawlessness, and where will it stop? Before you throw out one tyrant, it is important to be certain another isn’t waiting to take his place! How could you know what forces you were unleashing? Shah Reza Phalavi was crazy and corrupt, no doubt, but many of us wished to sow the seeds of a more just government first before we overturned the soil. Now the central government is too weak to hold the country together, communists are clamoring on our doorsteps, and what good has your interference achieved?”
Ara stared at his boots for a moment, ashamed. “You’re right