Story Description:
Atria Books|June 18, 2013 | Hardcover|ISBN:
978-1-4767-0909-3
Neda is born in Tehran’s Evin Prison, where her
mother is allowed to nurse her for a few months before the arms of a guard
appear at the cell door one day and, simply, take her away. In another part of the city, three-year-old,
Omid witnesses the arrests of his political activist parents from his perch at
their kitchen table, yogurt dripping from his fingertips. More than twenty years after the violent,
bloody purge that took place inside Tehran’s prisons, Sheida learns that her
father was one of those executed, that the silent void firmly planted between
her and her mother all these years was not just the sad loss that comes with
death, but with anguish and the horror of murder.
These are the Children
of the Jacaranda Tree. Set in
post-revolutionary Iran from 1983 to 2011, this stunning debut novel follows a
group of mothers, fathers, children, and lovers, some related by blood, others
brought together by the tide of history that washes over their lives. Finally, years later, it is the next
generation that is left with the burden of the past and their country’s tenuous
future as a new wave of protest and political strife begins.
Children
of the Jacaranda Tree is an evocative portrait of three
generations of men and women inspired by love and poetry, burning with
idealism, chasing dreams of justice and freedom. Written in Sahar Delijani’s spellbinding
prose, capturing the intimate side of revolution in a country where the weight
of history is all around, it is a moving tribute to anyone who has ever
answered its call.
My Review:
Azar was blindfolded sitting on the corrugated
iron floor of a van. The movement of the
van through the wild traffic was thrashing her from one side to the other. Being nine months pregnant, having
contractions, and about to give birth, this was not an ideal situation for her
to be in. Azar was dripping with sweat
from the high heat and the chador she was wearing, even the blindfold over her
eyes was damp with sweat.
From her place in the back of the van she thought
about the people in the prison with her and how at night you could hear the
howl and screams of pain, yet you could do nothing to help, only listen to
another soul being tortured. A bump in the
road brought her back out of her daydream and she could hear Brother and Sister
in the front of the van talking and laughing about something. She could not hear their words clearly, she
could only hear chatter. Azar tried to
keep out the voices inside the van by concentrating on the hum of the city
outside – Tehran, “her beloved city, which she had neither seen nor heard for
months. She wondered how the city could
have changed with the war with Iraq dragging on into its third year.”
Azar tried to sit up straighter the jostling of
the van and the fabric of the chador was making her slide around on the iron
floor. She tried to tighten her grasp on
the railing as she was determined to keep the baby inside until they reached
the hospital. Just then she felt a
sudden gush between her legs and held her breath as the uncontrollable trickle
ran down her thigh. Panic swept through
her as she touched the pants carefully with the tips of her fingers. She was frightened because she wasn’t sure
what would happen next or how quickly a baby even came after the mother’s water
broke, or if it was dangerous.
The van stopped, the doors opened, she was
handcuffed, then ordered to get out.
Azar found she could barely stand but once the blindfold was taken off
she was relieved to see they had at last reached the prison hospital. After being forced to climb a few sets of
stairs, the doctor told Sister they could not keep Azar there as she was not a
part of that prison, and were told to take her somewhere else. Azar was from Evin prison. Descending the stairs and back outside, she was
once again blindfolded and placed back into the van.
A bit later the van stopped again and Azar was
led, blindfolded into a building. She
was told to sit down on a wooden chair.
Shortly she heard the unmistakable sound of someone approaching and she
knew who it was. What better time to
interrogate her again when she was in such dire pain and anguish. How cruel!!
The questions came at her one after the other and she knew every single
answer must match ‘exactly’ to those she’d given in every previous
interrogation, not one tiny shred should differ. “What is your husband’s name? What party do
you belong to? Where were the meetings?”
and on the questions went until Azar was almost passed out from pain and the
man finally left. Azar got up and
followed Sister’s voice down a corridor flanked by a nurse. She could barely keep their pace. Finally they stopped and removed her
blindfold and handcuffs and Azar climbed up onto a narrow bed in a roomful of
nurses and doctors. “Azar refused to
acknowledge Sister’s presence there, wished to forget it completely. Not only Sister but everything Sister’s
presence meant: Azar’s captivity, her solitude, her fear, giving birth in
prison.”
Azar thought back to happier times when she taught
children in schools outside the city of Tehran.
Their eyes were full of admiration, of deference verging on fear of the
city girl who opened and closed books so easily, who spoke in perfect Farsi,
who looked out of place in her city clothes in the classroom with its clay
walls that constituted the entire school.
Azar’s heart ached at the thought of those days,
when she worked for a new country, a better and more just country. How happy she had been, taking the bus back
to Tehran in the evening. She could not
wait to arrive home, knowing her husband, Ismael would be expecting her in their
tiny apartment. There would be the
perfume of steamed rice filling in her nostrils as she entered the flat, and
Ismael would come to her, pull her into his arms, and say, “May you never get
tired.” She would make tea, and while
they drank it together, sitting by the narrow window that faced the trees of
the courtyard engulfed in the night, he would tell her of Karl Marx and she
read poems to him.
Children
of the Jacaranda Tree is an evocative portrait of three
generations of men and women inspired by love and poetry, burning with
idealism, chasing dreams of justice and freedom. I thoroughly enjoyed this novel and read it
one sitting, I just couldn’t put it down.
For a debut novel, it was spellbinding.
No comments:
Post a Comment