Sample Chapter

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Seven silk threads embraced grandma Sapee’s cracked but agile fingers. Red, green, yellow. My mother sighed, her lips squeezed to hide her locked teeth. White, purple, black, and blue. Sticky tears soaked every string she handed to Sapee. My mother picked up the severed head of a chicken from the bottom of the stone sink.

Grandma Sapee commanded my mom, “Soraya, hold the head still, push the tongue in, and press the beak together. Now point the beak towards me. I will do the rest.” My mother tried to obey but her trembling hands were shaking with sorrow.

Sapee rolled the seven colored strings into one bundle and brought it under the chicken’s beak. As she recited a prayer, her confidant voice traveled above the black ceiling of the old kitchen. “May my prayers reach the Shamayim (the Heavens, in Hebrew).” She inhaled, “I call on the spirit of the Prophet Ibrahim. Save my granddaughter from Evil thoughts!” And the first knot was tied, wrapping around the beak of the dead chicken. She continued, “Prophet Isaac, come to our rescue.” She tied the second knot atop the first. “Prophet Jacob, tie the tongues of all who teach sinister words of the Goo-eem to Guita.” Her fingers pulled the strings way up and quickly tied the third knot.

My mother’s tears ran over her lips, dripping, and passed her quivering chin. With a broken screech she begged, “I pray to the spirit of the four Holy Mothers: Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah - save my child from this dark hearted woman, Layla!” Grandma Sapee tied the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh knots. 

Seven prayers dedicated to the three holy patriarchs and four holy matriarchs of the Jewish faith. Seven silk colored strings, seven prayers, tied seven times around the beak of a severed head of a chicken. “May the tongue of evil be tied. May the words of Satan be forever trapped and destroyed,” they both shouted out. 

Grandma Sapee’s lips blossomed with a wide grin. She burst into a whimsical laughter, held up the chicken’s head in front of my mother’s reddened eyes and said, “Now we just have to bury this head on the path where this menacing woman walks daily. Lady Layla, your influence on Guita will be obliterated. Your words will suffocate in your throat for good.”

Sapee hugged my mother and whispered into her ear, “This is the most potent spiritual craft that I learned from my own father, Mula Aziz.” She then pulled up Soraya’s chin, looked directly into her fearful eyes and continued, “Remember that your grandfather rescued hundreds of people trapped in misery and bad luck. He was a master shaman with incredible spiritual powers. He cured illnesses, helped older girls wed, barren women get pregnant, unfaithful men repent, and many destitute poor come into wealth. So many Jews, even Muslims, believed in and sought his assistance, and faithfully used his magical potions, rituals, and prayers.”

My Mother reached out, grabbed the chicken’s head, held it in front of her eyes and said, “I pray to the spirit of my grandfather, Mula Aziz, save my child.” The vibrant silk colors whirled in the noon sunlight that had now brightened the old kitchen.

I was standing in grandma’s courtyard, peering through the ajar window that opened to Sapee’s humble kitchen. I watched the desperate attempts of two anguished women. They had turned to jadoo janbal (Persian voodoo).

I wondered, “Why are they so threatened by Layla, a 23 year old book-keeper in my high school? Gentle, kind Layla who has invited me to join the revolutionary forces to save our county from poverty, inequality, and darkness.”

 I felt a burst of energy in my head and the heat of the sun pulsing in my throat. A thunderous voice shouted in my head, “There was no witchcraft or mystery in the unfair and brutal dictatorship that ruled Iran. A regime that had suppressed freedom of speech, tortured and murdered all who questioned its illegitimate authority. Two thousand five hundred years of Persian monarchy, where kings ruled with cruelty over masses of innocent people. Now is the time for a democratic order. Now we are all ready for jihad (struggle for a holy purpose) and willing to give our lives to protect our revolution.”

I wanted to run into the old kitchen, let out my blazing message of freedom and bring consciousness to their ignorant minds. But my feet remained fixed in the courtyard, remembering the wise words of Layla who had said, “The grounds have to first be cleansed for new seeds to be planted and grow. Purify your mind from old and distorted beliefs. Then, a meaningful internal transformation will surely ensue. This is the true, holy jihad. Allah won’t change the external circumstances of a nation until they come to a personal, internal realization.”

Her voice ran in my veins and quelled my mind, “Let patience be your indestructible comrade.”

Now Grandma Sapee and my mom had washed their hands and were sitting at a wooden kitchen table, sipping chayee (tea) and nibbling on nooneh shirmal (sweet bread), planning their next steps. Sapee said, “This chicken head should be buried on the path where Layla walks daily. The magic will seal if she walks on this tied tongue.” They agreed to ask uncle Moise to bury it at the doorstep of Layla’s house. 

My eyes caught the light reflecting from the round old mirror above the stone sink in the kitchen. I tasted briny tears coming from nowhere, finding their way onto my wooden tongue. I heard strange sounds like shards of glass cracking in my head. I realized that getting close to Layla was the beginning of letting go of the Jewish girl that I had known as me. Following Layla meant the burial of the future that I, my mother, and Sapee had imagined for me. Letting go of the dream of marriage to a Jewish boy before I reached the age of twenty. Letting go of raising children committed to and proud of their Jewish heritage. I would now become a traitor and a stranger to my family and community.

Yet an unknown force convinced me that I must create a new head, pure and independent of all other influences. 

Layla had promised, “Once you learn more about the teachings of our Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Khomeini, the love of freedom will be illuminated in your heart forever. Guita jaan, my beloved Jewish friend, you must be ready to lose your head and ride on a treacherous road.”

As I became closer to Layla, I saw a new reflection of myself. I saw a girl in the fall of 1978, wavering with a loose headscarf, during those first waves of street demonstrations, yearning to join the voices of freedom. I continued my devotion to the revolution after its triumph in the winter of 1979, and in the almost two years that followed I was fully covered in chador. The jihad calling me into her arms was irresistible.