The Septembers of Shiraz (A Bad Book About Iran ?)

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What do you do if your dad disappears? That question takes on even greater significance in a patriarchal society and it's the one confronting by two Iranian girls living 300 years apart.

In The Septembers of Shiraz set in 1981 Iran, Shirin Amin's father is grabbed at work by the Revolutionary Guards for the double crime of having lived well under the shah and for being Jewish. The unnamed heroine of The Blood of Flowers loses her father to a farming accident, but the results cause just as much upheaval – if less emotional devastation.

Both "The Septembers of Shiraz" and "The Blood of Flowers" are first novels by talented Iranian-born writers now living in the United States, and both seem primed to enjoy the success among book clubs that helped turn "The Kite Runner" into a runaway bestseller.

But "The Septembers of Shiraz" by Dalia Sofer is the more gripping work, perhaps because it is tied to real-life events that continue to echo in world politics today. Sofer fled Iran in 1982 at age 10, and the level of detail with which she crafts her story about a family under duress makes it seem likely that some of the events have been drawn from life.

While Isaac Amin, the jailed father, tries to persuade his interrogator that he is just a gemologist and not a Zionist spy, his wife, Farnaz, struggles to navigate her new world. As the days pass, the beautiful former journalist can hardly get out of bed. Their daughter, Shirin, deep in her own depression, is reminded of a lesson her father once shared with her on ghazals, an Arabic poetic form. " 'There is no end....

That's the first thing you should learn about ghazals. There is no resolution. Imagine the speaker simply throwing his hands in the air.' Maybe in life, as in a ghazal, there is no resolution. She finds relief in the idea of throwing her arms in the air.

Maybe there are no solutions, nothing to be done." Farnaz's inertia is no doubt realistic, but it can make for frustrating reading, as can her son Parviz's self-pity, as the architecture student tries to define himself without access to his father's money.

Isaac is the real heart of the novel. The man who made shadow puppets by candlelight so his daughter wouldn't be frightened by the Iraqi bombs falling overhead, uses memories of his family and a life of reading poetry to sustain him as he and his fellow prisoners are tortured and executed.

Shirin, meanwhile, finds secret surveillance files in a friend's basement, and steals several, hoping it means the Revolutionary Guards will lose the scent of a few people.

Sofer paints a complicated picture of postrevolutionary Iran: The Amins (and especially their relatives) aren't entirely innocent, having shut their eyes to brutality and corruption under the shah, but Sofer recoils from the idea of justice by "collective retribution" voiced by Farnaz's formerly docile housekeeper.

While the dialogue can feel overly formal at times, the impression the reader is left with at the end is that of a powerful story honestly told.

"The Blood of Flowers" by Anita Amirrezvani, with its interwoven fairy tales, feminist-ready plotline, and rich cultural detail, is, in many ways, an easier sell. After her father dies, the girl and her mother travel to Isfahan to live with her dad's half-brother, a rug designer favored by the shah.

After surveying the riches in her uncle's house, the girl measures true wealth by the courtyard. "It had a pool of water shaded by two poplars. I thought of the single tree in my village, a large cypress. For one family to have its own shade and greenery seemed to me the greatest of luxuries."

While her aunt never misses a chance to treat them like servants, her uncle is kind to the girl and teaches her the finer points of design and color. His kindness, however, doesn't extend to providing her with a dowry. Unable to marry, she is persuaded to become the legal mistress of a wealthy horse trader. Under the contract, called a sigheh, which is renewable, the two are considered married for three months at a time – a nice bit of sophistry that still exists today.

Unhappy with her tenuous existence, the girl makes plans to use her artistic talents to build a real life for herself and her mother. While the writing sometimes takes on an unmistakably purple tint, that's offset by the evocation of life in 17th-century Isfahan.

Amirrezvani includes traditional folk tales that the mother tells her daughter to take their minds off their troubles and engrossing descriptions about the art of rugmaking and those works' centrality to Iranian culture.

Her uncle likes to lecture the narrator about integrity of design and the importance of beauty amid cruelty and injustice, but the woman who runs the public baths sums it up best: " 'Often we must live with imperfection,' she said. 'And when people worry about a stain on their floor, what do they do?' 'They throw a carpet over it,' I replied. 'From Shiraz to Tabriz, from Baghdad to Heart, that is what Iranians do.' "

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Chapter One

When Isaac Amin sees two men with rifles walk into his office at half past noon on a warm autumn day in Tehran, his first thought is that he won't be able to join his wife and daughter for lunch, as promised.

"Brother Amin?" the shorter of the men says.

Isaac nods. A few months ago they took his friend Kourosh Nassiri, and just weeks later news got around that Ali the baker had disappeared.

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"We're here by orders of the Revolutionary Guards." The smaller man points his rifle directly at Isaac and walks toward him, his steps too long for his legs. "You are under arrest, Brother."

Isaac shuts the inventory notebook before him. He looks down at his desk, at the indifferent items witnessing this event—the scattered files, a metal paperweight, a box of Dunhill cigarettes, a crystal ashtray, and a cup of tea, freshly brewed, two mint leaves floating inside. His calendar is spread open and he stares at it, at today's date, September 20, 1981, at the notes scribbled on the page -- call Mr. Nakamura regarding pearls, lunch at home, receive shipment of black opals from Australia around 3:00 PM, pick up shoes from cobbler -- appointments he won't be keeping. On the opposite page is a glossy photo of the Hafez mausoleum in Shiraz. Under it are the words, "City of Poets and Roses."

"May I see your papers?" Isaac asks.

"Papers?" the man chuckles. "Brother, don't concern yourself with papers."

The other man, silent until now, takes a few steps. "You are Brother Amin, correct?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Then please follow us."

He examines the rifles again, the short man's stubby finger already on the trigger, so he gets up, and with the two men makes his way down his five-story office building, which seems strangely deserted. In the morning he had noticed that only nine of his sixteen employees had come to work, but he had thought nothing of it; people had been unpredictable lately. Now he wonders where they are. Had they known?

As they reach the pavement he senses the sun spreading down his neck and back. He feels calm, almost numb, and he reminds himself he should remain so. A black motorcycle is parked by the curb, next to his own polished, emerald-green Jaguar. The small man smirks at the sleek automobile, then mounts his motorcycle, releases the brake, and ignites the engine. Isaac mounts next, with the second soldier behind him. "Hold on tight," the soldier says. Isaac's arms girdle the small man and the third man rests his hands on Isaac's waist. Sandwiched between the two he feels the bony back of one against his stomach and the belly of the other pushing into his back. The bitter smell of unwashed hair makes him gag. Turning his head to take a breath, he glimpses one of his employees, Morteza, frozen on the sidewalk like a bystander at a funeral procession.

The motorcycle swerves through the narrow spaces between jammed cars. He watches the city glide by, its transformation now so obvious to him: movie posters and shampoo advertisements have been replaced by sweeping murals of clerics; streets once named after kings now claim the revolution as their patron; and once-dapper men and women have become bearded shadows and black veils. The smell of kebab and charcoaled corn, rising from the street vendor's grill, fills the lunch hour. He had often treated himself to a hot skewer of lamb kebab here, sometimes bringing back two dozen for his employees, who would congregate in the kitchen, slide the tender meat off the skewers with slices of bread, and chew loudly. Isaac joined them from time to time, and while he could not allow himself to eat with equal abandon, he would be pleased for having initiated the gathering.

The vendor, fanning his grilled meat, looks at Isaac on the motorcycle, stupefied. Isaac looks back, but his captors pick up speed and he feels dizzy all of a sudden, ready to topple over. He locks his fingers around the driver's girth.

They stop at an unassuming gray building, dismount the bike, and enter. Greetings are exchanged among the revolutionaries and Isaac is led to a room smelling of sweat and feet. The room is small, maybe one-fifth the size of his living room, with mustard-yellow walls. He is seated on a bench, already filled with about a dozen men. He is squeezed between a middle-aged man and a young boy of sixteen or seventeen.

"I don't know how they keep adding more people on this bench," the man next to him mumbles, as though to himself but loudly enough for Isaac to hear. Isaac notices the man is wearing pajama pants with socks and shoes.

"How long have you been here?" he asks, deciding that the man's hostility has little to do with him.

"I'm not sure," says the man. "They came to my house in the middle of the night. My wife was hysterical. She insisted on making me a cheese sandwich before I left. I don't know what got into her. She cut the cheese, her hands shaking. She even put in some parsley and radishes. As she was about to hand me the sandwich one of the soldiers grabbed it from her, ate it in three or four bites, and said, 'Thanks, Sister. How did you know I was starving?'" Hearing this story makes Isaac feel fortunate; his family at least had been spared a similar scene. "This bench is killing my back," the man continues. "And they won't even let me use the bathroom."

Isaac rests his head against the wall. How odd that he should get arrested today of all days, when he was going to make up his long absences to his wife and daughter by joining them for lunch. For months he had been leaving the house at dawn, when the snow-covered Elburz Mountains slowly unveiled themselves in . . .

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ناشر معتبر آمريكايي كتابي ضد* ايراني چاپ كرد

خبرگزاري فارس: انتشارات آمريكايي «هايپر كولينز» اقدام به چاپ كتابي ضد ايراني با نام «سپتامبرهاي شيراز» نموده كه در آن حوادث اوايل انقلاب به طرز اغراق آميزي خشونت *آميز روايت شده*اند.


به گزارش خبرگزاري فارس، سايت انتشارات هايپر كوليينز، يكي از معتبرترين ناشران آمريكا در حالي خبر از انتشار كتاب «سپتامبرهاي شيراز»، اولين اثر «داليا سوفر»، نويسنده جوان متولد ايران داد كه اين انتشارات به سبب شهرتش به ندرت اقدام به چاپ اولين اثر و يا اثر نويسندگان جوان و بي*تجربه مي*نمايد.

اين كتاب داستان خانواده*اي يهودي است كه پدر خانواده كه شغلش طلافروشي بوده و يكي از مشتريانش نيز فرح بوده است و به سبب اين رفت و آمدهايش تا حدودي گرايشات سلطنتي دارد، توسط نيروهاي انقلابي در همان سال*هاي اول انقلاب دستگير و در حالي كه خانواده*اش از او خبري ندارند، او را به شدت در زندان*هاي ايران شكنجه مي*نمايند.
در اين رمان انقلاب و جريانات منتسب به انقلاب اسلامي ايران به عنوان افرادي رواني و عاشق خشونت و شكنجه معرفي و محكوم شده*اند.
«داليا سوفر» كه متولد ايران است، در سن 10 سالگي به همراه والدينش به آمريكا مهاجرت كرده است.

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A book review
Zohreh Ghahremani
In a publishing world where a majority of manuscripts are printed exclusively for the benefit of marketplace, it is uncommon to find the work of a new author in print simply on its own merit and because it was too good to reject. The Septembers of Shiraz is such a book. Not only is it written from the heart, but also the soft touch in Dalia Sofer’s style is a rare gift to readers who crave good literary work.

True as it may be that the title could have been more relevant – as noted by several critics – by the time I realized this I was pulled so deeply into the story that I no longer cared. Ironically, the misleading title works to the book’s advantage because I doubt I would have picked it off the shelf if the title were Septembers at Evin, or any other that might have revealed its plot.

The current title of this novel foreshadows poetic prose, a promise that despite the horrific storyline, the author keeps throughout. During the recent decades, Iranian immigrants have written numerous memoirs and it has reached a point where a fresh voice is welcomed. What our nation has endured is all too familiar, however, Sofer’s soft touch is like a balm to the wound that resists healing.

In this novel, Dalia Sofer in her lyrical style walks the readers through a peaceful society and the sanctuary of Iranian home just to infuse the unbearable pain suffered by many in the dungeons of Evin. While she joins the new wave of looking back with a focus on the aftermath of the Islamic Revolution, her unique approach spares readers from the redundancy seen in many other books of this genre.

The protagonist, Isaac Amin, happens to be an Iranian Jewish man, but at no point in the book does one detect an underlying agenda to glorify this, or any other minorities. Isaac suffers alongside the Christian, the Muslim, young and old. In fact, there are many passages where the only way to know the characters’ faith is through their given names. How regrettable it is to see the union of our nation in a most unfortunate circumstance. “In this room, stripped of their ornaments and belongings, they are nothing more than bodies, each as likely as the next to face a firing squad or to go home, unscathed, with a gripping tale to tell friends and family.”

In reference to the late shah, the simple truth in Sofer’s one small paragraph tells more than all the other comments we’ve heard in support or against the monarch. “Isaac saw him as neither visionary nor despot, but as a man who had wished both himself and his country to be something they were not.” And she only needs one sentence to depict the Iranian marriage among the upper crust during that era. “... Turning her husband into the kind of man who could offer her the rarest luxuries, but little else, and herself into the kind of woman who had come to accept these terms.” Such brief remarks are sprinkled throughout the novel and perhaps it is their brevity that gives them the cutting edge of a laser beam.

Like a camera, Dalia Sofer’s fine pen takes her readers to the heart of every scene, enabling them to see the characters and feel their pain. “A neighbor emerges from her house and hurries down the street. “They brought eggs today!” she yells to Farnaz and whizzes by . . . That the city is short by one man this morning makes so little difference.”

Symbolism and artistic metaphors are the backbones of Persian poetry, but such tender writing is uncommon in our prose, especially where injustice, captivity and torture are concerned. How refreshing it is to hear details of vindictive actions told in a surprisingly soft voice. Sofer walks that fine line between being compassionate or offensive with, “How unyielding is that space between connection and interruption – one false move, one mistaken word, and you find yourself on the wrong side of things.” And yet, throughout the book she maintains her impartiality with utmost precision.

The protagonist, Isaac, is a jeweler in Tehran, a Jew whose family has lived peacefully among Muslims for generations, an employer betrayed by those he trusted. He comes alive on the page and his character is so true that the reader knows him well. After three decades of similar fates, we have all come across a few Isaacs of our own, regardless of their gender, religion or status. The lonely man in Dalia Sofer’s book is you, and me, and an entire nation who had it all just to let go and end up in a place “ . . . where people will mispronounce their names and where they will eventually stop correcting them . . .”

My hat is off to a young woman who left Iran at the age of ten, yet understands the depth of her nation’s grief and cares enough to write about it. I’ve enjoyed every page of this novel and it leaves me with only one question. “When will her next book be out?”