Childhood Memories in Revolutionary Tehran
I was four years old when the revolution happened. I don’t remember much from the Pahlavi era. In fact, I barely remember anything. When the Islamic Revolution erupted, we lived in the centre of Tehran, the capital of Iran.
I remember my mum opening our front door to let frightened protestors hide under the stairs, offering them water. They were shaking, and I could hear gunshots somewhere outside, but I never saw anyone injured. My mother even took me to demonstrations. She was so proud, convinced that she was part of something noble, helping to build a better Iran. She had no idea what was really happening. She was absolutely brainwashed.
Looking back, she reminds me of those who demonstrate in Western cities these days for a cause they barely understand; passionate, maybe even sincere, but unaware of the darker forces at work. My mother never finished high school. She was born into a traditional and moderately religious, or rather, confused old Tehrani’s family and married at a very young age.
Continue reading Princess Ashraf Pahlavi and I
