A fire of her own

When Fatimah tugs at the peeling bark of a one-hundred-year-old eucalyptus tree, one jagged edge pierces her supple thumb, one drop of blood, red and round as Tehran’s setting sun streaking the sky red. A fire: fed by shouts of women and their tossed Roosaris. Their hairs, naked, speckled with the pollution particles, ruffle under the remnants of the day’s last breeze. Perhaps twenty, fifty, one hundred women. More gather, shouting: “Women, life, freedom!” Fatimah watches them from across the street, peeling more bark, exposing the white flesh of the tree underneath.

 An elderly lady, her own Roosari flickering in the fire, hands the children rosewater lollipops meant to soothe the growing confusion in their bellies. Why is there a fire, Mama? Why are you burning the Roosari grandma gifted you last Nawruz? For years to come, the adults these children grow into will smell ash anytime they taste anything sweet. Behind the fire, a girl with curls like fearless snakes writes on the wall, Zan, Zendegi, Azadi, her can of white spray paint sputtering with a last huff of life. The curls of the letter “Z” in Farsi bounce like the white strands of Nane Sarma’s hair- the queen of the sky who drizzles Tehran white every winter.

“Go buy Sabzi for lunch,” her mother’s order sent Fatemeh to Azadi Street. She tugs her Roosari’s knot tighter, black and thick as the hairs growing under her armpits, under her chin, even a stray one on her left nipple that feels like a thorn. All hair she hides away diligently. The fire has marked the women’s faces flushed. The girl with the paint spray calls out to Fatemeh, “Take off your Roosari! Join us!”

A knot of discomfit unwinds in Fatemeh’s belly. She tightens her Roosari’s knot until a familiar ache has settled against her throat. As she runs back home, the bags of Sabzi slap her legs, the fire smoking her eyes.

At lunch, Maman, whose uncovered hair Fatemeh has not seen to this day, piles Gheimeh on a heap of saffron rice for Fatemeh’s father, sprinkles on top glistening fries, luscious pods of fat. Like a good Iranian mother of a girl a few years shy of marriageable age, Maman polices her daughter’s servings, ticketing Fatemeh with “All that rice will become a rim around your waist,” or “No one will marry a girl whose belly sags before childbirth.”

Crunching bitter basil high on her plates alongside a few spoons of rice, Fatemeh feels like a cow, this insatiable hunger her bovine heritage. “No mother will let their son marry a girl who chews like a camel,” Maman grumbles. Heat claws up Fatemeh’s cheeks.

After lunch, Fatemeh asks Maman, “Why are the women protesting?”

Maman is at war with a hill of parsley, discarding stems, tossing leaves in a basket where they wait to be rinsed of their dirt.

“Khoda Midoneh.” For her mother, God knows everything. Fatemeh has been listening, especially during her midnight prayers, begging God to speak to her too. Maybe God speaks a language of silence because that’s all she hears.

“A woman doesn’t always know what’s good for her. These women are Bi Haya, eager to bare hair for any Namahram man,” Maman says, her fingers inspecting leftover dirt. “Enough questions. Time for jump ropes.”

In their walled front yard, Fatemeh jumps barefoot on the garden dirt by the aged apricot tree, bare without its leaves. The Muazzin’s call to prayer is crowded with the cacophony of a crow. Her heart pumps like an urgent knock at the door. In between the rolls of her neck, sweat drops glide. She wipes them with her Roosari, but soon enough, her neck is wet again.

It’s like trying to dry a lake.

“Zan, Zendegi, Azadi!” shouts this time behind Fatemeh’s rusty entrance door. The fingers of another flame, visible above the wall, crawl toward the sky, the fire’s belly full of more Roosaris.

Peeking through the keyhole, Fatemeh spots the gathering crowd. “Zan, Zendegi, Azadi.”

Fatimeh coughs, the thick smoke choking her lungs.

“Come inside,” Maman calls from inside the house. “Time for prayers.”

Even through the peephole, Fatemeh’s cheeks feel warmed by the flames.

Zan, Zendegi, Azadi.

“Fatemeh! Come in!” Maman calls again, her voice brittle yet sharp as the eucalyptus barks. When Fatemeh opens her sweaty palms, a small flame flutters to life. Fatemeh watches it closely, searching in it for the face of God.