In October, Armand, a young Armenian fellow together with his wife, Aida and their baby girl, Talin, arrived from Tehran to Oberammergau, Germany. Already that early in the fall, the weather was freezing cold. White, shiny snow had blanketed the ground, trees, and rooftops. Aida, who hated cold weather, wondered if it was that cold in October, then how it would be like in the winter months. Oberammergau, tucked high up in the bosom of the Alp mountains in Germany, was and still is a wonderful ski resort. It also used to harbor an important US military base. Armand, who worked for the US Corps of Engineers in Tehran, had been transferred to Oberammergau to help the Iranian officers with their training at the US Army base.

Aida did not like Oberammergau at all. To her the Alpine village, compared to the lively and bustling Tehran, was like a graveyard. She thought that the only thing that brought that village slightly to life was the echo of the chimes of the church bells. She could not wait for her husband’s two-year work term to come to an end so that they could return to her beloved Tehran. What’s more, she badly missed her family members and friends.

Noticing how depressed his wife was, Armand advised her to apply for a translator’s job at the US base; which she did and was immediately hired. Fortunately, they were able to find a friendly and nice Danish young woman to take care of Talin.

Aida really liked her work and the atmosphere at the office. As long as she was at the office, she was contented. However, when they returned to their resident, both, husband and wife felt like they didn’t have a real home. They lived on the top floor of a three-story large building belonging to the US Army called, House Osterbichel. In wintertime, the temperature in their room was almost as cold as it was outdoors. Their bedroom, where they and their baby spent most of their time while they did not work, felt extremely. For some reason, the heat failed to reach the top floor in that immense building, and sometimes, Aida was forced to have her baby run around in the room with her overcoat on.

To cook and have their meals, the couple like the rest of the employees who lived at House Osterbichel, used the communal kitchen and dinning room. Being fed up with their living conditions, Aida could not wait to go back to return to Iran. Despite being an Armenian and a Christian, she preferred the country of her origin, which was Muslim. One should think that Aida should be happy to be living in a Christian land. However, she loved Iran and its friendly people.

Her mood worsened, when their little girl came down with a terrible chest infection and high fever, thanks to their freezing bedroom. Thus, one morning, when she arrived to the office, Aida decided to go and see the commander of the US base to talk about their living conditions. Of course, she did not mention anything about her decision to Armand.

Normally, you are not supposed to go directly to the commander. In the US Army, regulations demand that you talk to your direct supervisor, and let him handle your complaint in an appropriate manner. However, Aida decided not to abide by the regulations. So, that morning, she waited by the commanding officer’s office door.

In no time, the commander arrived. Seeing Aida at his doorstep, he asked, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, Sir. Colonel,” she answered bravely.

The colonel invited Aida into his office, while narrowing his eyes quizzically. Then, he motioned her to take a seat by his desk.

Aida didn’t waist any time and immediately dived into the subject matter, “Sir,” she said. “When the US Corp of Engineers was transferring my husband to Germany, they promised us a great life here.”

“And?”

“And, we are not having such a great life! In fact, our living conditions are horrible!” she shook her head, and went on, “Today, I came to tell you that we will not stay here under such uncomfortable conditions.”

The colonel seemed extremely annoyed with the manner in which Aida had approached him. She could tell it from the way he creased his brow.

He soon began pacing the length of the office floor, looking angry. Aida thought that he might be thinking to himself how a young woman would dare to insult an important personality like himself in the organization.

Presently, the colonel stopped pacing the room, and retorted, “OK; you can go back to Iran if you want, but I wouldn’t want to lose your husband.”

Aida laughed, “Are you joking, Sir? If I go, he will also go.”

The commander of the US base, upon hearing Aida’s words, smiled and dropped his tall body into his seat and laughed, “You are so right. What was I thinking? Of course he will go. Who would want to separate from such a pretty and charming lady?”

Aida sniggered happily, feeling triumphant. Hooray, she thought… She had done it all by herself. Yes, without the interference of his immediate boss. So, what would you call this if not the ‘women’s power?’

Sure enough! Within less than a week. Armand and Aida were granted a small cozy house, right next to House Osterbichel.

My mother-in-law, Emily, loved to talk about her own deceased mother-in-law, Sonia, who she claimed taught her many valuable and practical lessons in life. One such lesson that she recounted was about a conversation she once had with Sonia. Emily said that one day when she came home from work feeling extremely tired, she sat in the sofa for a few minutes doing nothing. Sonia, who was moving about constantly like a busy bee, looked at Emily disapprovingly and said, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Just resting,” Emily responded.
“Resting?” she said, shaking her head critically. “Don’t you know that the more you move the healthier you get?’
“Really?” Emily asked.
“Yes, really.” She answered. “Even if you have nothing to do, you should get up. Grab the broom and keep dropping it on the floor and pick it up.”
“I get it,” Emily said, ”It is the same as working out.”
“Yes, indeed!” Sonia uttered smiling, as her eyes shone like two bright projectors.
I must admit that I, too, learned something from my own mother-in-law, Emily.
Once, as we were conversing about good attitude and happiness in life, she told me, “You can teach yourself to be happy.”
I asked, “How? Please teach me.”
She answered, “Simple. I will give you one example. All through my life, even during hardship, I have laughed artificially so much, that laughter has become a reality and a permanent habit.”
“I get it!” I said. “We should never fret.”

A few years back, when my husband was working for a major US firm, he took me along on most of his business trips. We traveled to different countries all over the world.
During such a trip, on a hot summer afternoon, my husband and I, flew from London to Hong Kong. At the airport, having gone through passport control, we headed toward the luggage claim department. To get there, we sauntered through the bright and shiny airport arrival hall, with its elegant designer stores of hand bag, clothing, perfume, and different others. And, as we proceeded, suddenly, from the corner of my right eye, I noticed something black – as big as a mouse – following me behind. Awe-stricken, I turned back. Upon seeing a huge, black and shiny bug, I yelled on top of my voice. My husband, also turned around to find out the reason for my panic.
“Stop it!” he said shaking his head. “It is only a cockroach!”
“What? You are joking!” I protested and looked closer at the so called ‘cockroach.’
Indeed, I had never in my whole life come across such an immense bug. It was truly the size of a mouse. Besides, why was it following me so unwaveringly and not others, I wondered?
While all this was happening, two young and pretty Chinese sales girls, covering their mouths with their hands, began laughing at me heartily. I looked at them with disgust. How could they laugh at a scared woman?
Funnily, the moment, the girls began laughing; the huge cockroach turned around and rushed towards them. I was so happy to be left alone.
In no time, the girls’ laughter turned into screams of desperation. Now, it was my turn to laugh at the situation.
Up to this day, I wonder if the unusually large cockroach was somebody’s trained, lost pet.

A few years back, when my husband was working for a major US firm, he took me along on most of his business trips. We traveled to different countries all over the world.
During such a trip, on a hot summer afternoon, my husband and I, flew from London to Hong Kong. At the airport, having gone through passport control, we headed toward the luggage claim department. To get there, we sauntered through the bright and shiny airport arrival hall, with its elegant designer stores of hand bag, clothing, perfume, and different others. And, as we proceeded, suddenly, from the corner of my right eye, I noticed something black – as big as a mouse – following me behind. Awe-stricken, I turned back. Upon seeing a huge, black and shiny bug, I yelled on top of my voice. My husband, also turned around to find out the reason for my panic.
“Stop it!” he said shaking his head. “It is only a cockroach!”
“What? You are joking!” I protested and looked closer at the so called ‘cockroach.’
Indeed, I had never in my whole life come across such an immense bug. It was truly the size of a mouse. Besides, why was it following me so unwaveringly and not others, I wondered?
While all this was happening, two young and pretty Chinese sales girls, covering their mouths with their hands, and began laughing at me heartily. I looked at them with disgust. How could they laugh at a scared woman?
Funnily, the moment, the girls began laughing at me; the huge cockroach turned around and rushed towards them. I was so happy to be left alone.
In no time, the girls’ laughter turned into screams of desperation. Now, it was my turn to laugh at the situation.
Up to this day, I wonder if the unusually large cockroach was somebody’s trained, lost pet.

A few years back, during a book signing event at East Hampton Library, something interesting happened. As I sat quietly behind my table, piled by my different books, two friendly writers, whose tables were next to mine, like myself, waited for the book byers to show up. The book event, was organized by Alec Baldwin – who himself was a few table away, with his own book. There were most probably over twenty writers present that summer day at the library’s large garden. We had all donated twenty copies of each of our different books to benefit the library.
While I quietly waited, a TV cameraman and a reporter holding a mike, approached my two neighboring writer ladies and began taping and questioning them. I soon realized that they were married to two well-known movie stars. Naturally, I felt like nobody, sitting meekly in my corner. Why aren’t the reporter and the cameraman paying any attention to me too, I thought to myself? I am also a writer. What can I do… that’s life, I pondered. Then, as soon as the TV crew left, the woman sitting by my right side, asked, “Did you write all these books yourself?”
“Excuse me!” I said looking baffled. “What do you mean?”
She gave me a lopsided smile. “What is so difficult to understand? I simply asked you if you genuinely wrote your books.”
“Naturally…!” I said. “Didn’t you write yours?”
She, now, gave me a friendlier smile and answered, “Of course not. I got myself a ghost writer.”
“How about the other well-known lady sitting next to you?”
The so called author shook her head, which of course meant ‘no’.
Can you imagine? All these celebrities who come out with a memoir, use other authors to write for them. I suppose the ghost writers are authors like me, who have given up on building a name. So, how else can they use their talent but to sell them?
Host

Two days earlier, my daughter and her eleven-year-old son were strolling leisurely on 5th Ave. The crowd on the two sidewalks was dense, as usual, and the atmosphere, bubbly and vibrant. As mother and son moved along, enjoying themselves, a young African American boy, around nineteen-years of age attracted their attention. He was leaning against a wall and sobbing pitiably, as he shifting on his badly hurt leg. The pant leg on his hurt side was torn, and his dirty white T-shirt was soaking with sweat in the midmorning heat. As the boy cried with pain, and tears cascaded down his cheeks, he stretched a begging hand to the passers-by. Unfortunately, the crowd moved on uncaringly. My grandson – whom I’ll call, Leon in the story – stopped in his place. He turned to his mother and said, “Mom, we have to help this poor boy. You can see how badly he is hurt.”
So, they approached the person and asked how they could help him. He answered, “I am very thirsty and hungry.”
Mother and son ran to the nearby grocery store and got some soda and chips, and handed them to him. The boy thanked them and said, “I have been begging all these people for hour to have pity on me, but they all simply walk on without caring.”
Leon sighed deeply and asked, “What happened to your leg?’
The boy explained that he fell getting off the train, on his way to the shelter. Leon demanded if he could get back to the shelter. The boy answered that he could if he had some money to take the train.
“Mom,” my grandson looked at my daughter. “We have to give him a bit of money.” My daughter immediately pulled out a twenty-dollar bill from her handbag, and offered to the boy, who took it thanking my daughter for her kindness. Leon, whose eyes were beginning to shimmer with tears, looked at his mother with melancholy, and asked her in a low voice to give more to the poor boy. My daughter who had another fifty dollar on her, took the money out and gave it to the young boy saying, “Promise me you won’t spend it on drugs.”
“I give you my honest word, mam. No, no, I won’t.” Then, turning to Leon, he added, “Listen, young man… Don’t do what I did in life. I dropped out of school, and thought I could become an actor. But, nobody gave me a chance to become one.” He shook his head and carried on, “You know, you need money for these things. So, I ended up becoming a homeless person.”
My grandson responded with a shaky voice, “It is not too late. You can still persevere with your dream. Promise me you will not give up.”
The homeless boy, thought for a while. Then he smiled at Leon, took a deep breath and said, “You are right. I have to be a fighter. Who knows, one day, you might see me on TV!”
Leon smiled and answered, “I’m sure you’ll succeed. Just don’t give up”
As they left the homeless limping boy, Leon began sobbing loudly. His mother hugged him and told him that she is proud of having such a caring child. Leon said, “You know what? Shame on people like us. We have everything, and yet, we still are not happy with what we have. We want more and more… Yes, nothing is good enough for us.”
Let’s hope for miracles. Let’s hope that the poor boy will truly succeed.

Yesterday, on BBC News I heard about the dire fate of a Christian woman in Pakistan. Apparently, she had an argument with a group of Pakistani Muslim women, who reported her to the police. They claimed that the Christian woman insulted their prophet Mohamed’s name. Whether this is true or not, it is not clear. However, the poor woman is in jail, awaiting execution.
This story reminds me of an event that happened to my deceased brother, when he was fourteen. My father had just passed away. I was nine, and we were living in a strict Islamic city in Iran called, Arak. In Arak, we, Armenians, being Christian, were considered spiritually unclean – “najis”. They called us, “sag Armani”, meaning, “dog Armenians” as for Muslims dogs were “najis”.
One day, Mother sent my fourteen-year-old brother to the bazaar to do some shopping. An Araki, boy, in baggy pants, and a wrinkled up dirty shirt, upon setting his eyes on my brother, began shouting, “Hey you, sag Armani.”
My brother stared at the tramp, lifting an eyebrow, and told him to shut up. The boy began shouting in rage, “Hey, Muslims, this Armenian boy is insulting our religion.”
(Now, regarding the Pakistani Christian woman, I wonder if those women who reported her to the police, might have made up the story.)
When the boys accused my brother of insulting Islam, within no time, a furious group of young and middle-aged bazaaris stormed forward and encircled him. From their shouts and angry looks, it was obvious that they were about to punish him. Normally, this would mean beating and kicking the guilty person to death.
Fortunately, before they had a chance to teach the teen- aged Armenian a lesson, a young, dark bearded man from among the crowd recognized him. He shouted loudly above the din of the furious mob.
“Leave him alone. He is Taddevos Petrossian’s son. “Don’t harm him. These people are good Iranians.”
Upon hearing my father’s name, the pack immediately turned around and dispersed.
Arakis working at the bazaar – or the bazaaris – all knew my father and respected him a lot. Imagine what might have happened if that nice man who recognized the innocent boy, had not been present among the crowd.
STORIES OF LIFE – Reminiscing Past Life in Iran

Two weeks earlier, I blogged about me taking a well-known Iranian singer to the recording studio, when I worked at CBS Records in Tehran. In case you haven’t read my previous story, I worked as assistant Art and Repertoire manager at the above company, after returning from Switzerland to Tehran for a short period – which happened to be during the last three years of the Shah’s reign.
Here is another recording story in CBS concerning an artist, whom I discovered and promoted. Let’s call him “Parviz” for this story.
Luckily or unluckily, the Iranian royal family liked Parviz very much.
One afternoon, as I sat in my office with a renowned traditional drummer, I received a call from the Shah’s twin sister’s office. Her secretary wanted me to find Parviz and tell him that the princess wants him to sing at the her party that same night. For some reason, Parviz, did not have a telephone at home. Each time I needed to contact him, I had to send the company driver to his house to deliver him a message.
The day I received that call, I was supposed to take Parviz to the studio to begin recording his new album. Thus, I bluntly told the royal secretary that Parviz could not perform at the princess’ party, because I had booked studio time for him.
“Are you crazy?” the drummer burst out, as soon as I hung up. “Next thing you know, tomorrow you’ll have a heart attack!”
“What…!” I interjected. “What do you mean? I’m young and healthy!”
“You don’t understand!” the drummer said, lowering his voice, to avoid the other employees in the neighboring offices from overhearing him. “What I mean is this. You should never say no to the Shah’s twin sister, or even to other members of the royal family.”
This reminded me of the rumor about the Shah’s father, who was believed to have ordered the court doctor to inject air into Reza Shah’s opponents’ arteries. That’s why certain people would have a sudden, unexplained heart attack. As I was preoccupied with this scary thought, the loud ringing of the telephone threw me out of my reverie.
“Madam, please listen to me!” I heard the voice of the princess’ secretary pleading, when I answered the phone. “Please, please… I beg you… do find Parviz, otherwise I will be in deep trouble.”
I sighed, feeling helpless and answered, “OK… OK! I’ll do it just for you.”
This might sound crazy, but despite my apprehension, what I desired was not to yield to the despotic wishes of the princess. Meanwhile, I did not mind to help the desperate royal secretary. My friend – the drummer – smiled and shook his head, probably thinking to himself that this woman will never learn.
+Stories of Life – Life in Iran During the Shah’s Reign

Chapter 72

NINE ELEVEN

September 11, 2001

It was 9-11, an unforgettable day. It was the day, when the majestic Twin Towers tumbled down like a pile of dominos, and the whole world witnessed the sight with horror. A day that the devil rejoiced for his evil actions, and his admirers danced in the streets….And a day when the only Muslim nation that observed a solemn candlelight vigil in memory of the victims of 9-11 was Iran.
At seven-thirty in the morning, we were crossing the Tri-Borough Bridge, driving from Manhattan to Long Island. Dennis, a friend of the family, who also worked for Caro’s company, was waiting for us by the entrance of Caro’s Long Island office to drive me home. We had spent the previous night in Manhattan celebrating the birthdays of Caro and Zaven, Jackie’s brother. We have always had a good time spending September 10-a double birthday-with Zaven, whom we dearly love.
As we headed toward Long Island in our Lexus, we talked about Nicole`s wedding. Nicole is the daughter of our friends, Jerry and Shirley. Nicole’s wedding was going to be held on the coming Saturday at the famous Windows on the World Restaurant in the Twin Towers. I was debating with Caro, whether I should wear my long, black and burgundy outfit.
Normally when we travel, without exception, we always have the car radio on. However, we did not that morning. We were busy talking, when we heard a horrifying noise… a big bang like that of an explosion.
“I think there was a shooting,” I speculated.
“Really… what was that noise?” Caro mused out-loud.
When we arrived in Roslyn to drop Caro off, Dennis was standing by the entrance, smoking a cigarette. The moment he laid his eyes upon us, he rushed forward and uttered, “You won’t believe what just happened!”
“What happened,” Caro began, as he got out of the car to offer the driver’s seat to Dennis, who was going to return the car to the office for Caro after driving me home.
Dennis exclaimed grimly, “Two planes just crashed into the Twin Towers.”
I thought he was joking. How could that happen? Then I remembered the horrifying sound of the bang.
“Seriously, turn on the radio, and you’ll find out,” Dennis said.
As Dennis and I drove on toward our house, the announcer on the radio suddenly cried out, “Oh my God! I can’t believe it…One of the towers just crashed down!” and a few seconds later her shaky voice came on again, “What a disaster… the second one collapsed too!”
Within seconds, the Western Long Island Expressway, leading toward Manhattan, was inundated by speeding fire engines, which were all heading down to the city. It was a strange feeling. It felt like I was dreaming.
Soon, I came to myself and muttered, “Can you imagine how many people must have died?”

In 1974, we returned to Tehran from Geneva, Switzerland for only three years. I have such good memories of those days, mainly, because of my job. Besides, Iran for me – despite being an Armenian – at the time, represented home. I loved the friendly people, the warm and joyous atmosphere, the beautiful, high mountains, exotic trees and flowers, and much more… Moreover, my family and people lived there, which I missed during all those years we lived in different European countries.
In 1974, my husband was the head of the CBS Company. And, I, having studied for some years as a teenager, at Tehran Conservatory, and because of my love of music, I decided to apply for a job at CBS. To my great pleasure, they employed me for the position of “Assistant Art and Repertoire Manager.” By chance, the head of the recording department, happened to be a previous classmate of mine at the Conservatory. His name was ‘Marcel.’ Marcel – also an Armenian – had become a well-known pianist in 74. At CBS, my friend, or better to say, my boss – gave me full authority to take on any artist, lyricist, or musician I wished to hire. Also, he let me handle not only the recording, but the political aspects of the work, like dealing with censorship and so forth… I must stress that a few of the well-known, brave singers had been imprisoned for years for singing controversial songs. Later, these same individuals, joined the group of our artists.
There were certain official committees that controlled the works artists produced. Therefore, for the release of each album, I had to appear in front of a committee to demonstrate that certain verses – as they claimed – were not aimed at criticizing the Shah’s system of government. (I am providing such details on purpose, in order to acquaint you a tiny bit with the political atmosphere of the time.) In those days, it was such a pleasure for me to work with all those renowned singers, like: Marzieh, Darush, Andy, Faramarz, and many others. What makes me even happier now, is that I am still in touch with certain loved and famous artists like, Andy. I also am friends with Dariush on Facebook. Isn’t it wonderful that Andy has invited us to attend his upcoming concert in Manhattan? He never cuts contact with our family.
Going back, let me tell you a story about one of my recording experiences. This concerns a real big star, Marzieh, whom I had previously taken to the studio and recorded all the songs in her new album. However, the work was not complete. Marzieh had recorded the whole repertoire, except for the last song. I think, this was one of her special ploys to show us that she was in charge. Or, to let us know that she could do as she pleased. Unfortunately, I, as a young recording assistant manager, did not know much about such tactics and caprices. So, I kept begging her to go to the studio with me and the sound engineer to complete the last song and help us launch the new album. However, it took months before she finally agreed to go to the studio to finalize the work.
This is how the story goes. As I was struggling with the question of how to convince Marzieh to cooperate, it suddenly occurred to me that I should treat her with real respect. Therefore, I called and told her that I had rented a top model Mercedes Benz with a driver, and that we would be picking her up at her place around four in the afternoon, the next day. Well, I guess she liked the idea and accepted.
When I got to her house with the recording engineer, she insisted that we go in for some tea and treats. Of course, there was no choice, but to accept her invitation.
As we sat in her large, bright room overlooking a lush garden, I kept fidgeting in my seat nervously, wishing for her to get up and go with us to the studio, which I had booked for five o’clock. Unfortunately, she would not budge. Marizieh kept laughing and telling us stories. Naturally, I was very anxious. Each hour at the studio cost five hundred Tomans – which was like five hundred dollars US money for us in those days. Finally, she agreed to leave with us at six-thirty.
Guess what? Yes, you are right! When we arrived at the studio, she would not sing. No matter how much I begged her and reminded her that I was responsible for all the money paid for the wasted hours at the studio, Marzieh ignored me completely. Instead, she kept on talking and laughing with the sound engineer. At some point, she started massaging the guy’s neck, to help him relax. Well, I am not going to give you a headache by describing everything that capricious middle-aged, dark haired, good-tempered artist did. All I will tell you is that finally, at seven o’clock in the morning, our famous lady decided to sing. Yes, Marzieh finally sang. And it took her just five minutes to give us a perfect song… a masterpiece!
Meanwhile, the sound engineer and I were almost dead with exhaustion. So, as soon as the recording was complete, we took Marzieh home, and headed straight to work. As I stumbled into the office, like a dazed ghost, with my bloodshed eyes and disheveled hair, I was surprised to see all the employees, and my husband, lined up by the entrance; applauding the two of us loudly and treating us like heroes. We had accomplished the impossible! Indeed, the famous album was finally complete!